Without Hesitation
by Filthy Weeabu Trash
Summary: It is the forty-third millennium, and war continues...
1. Act I: Prelude to Change

It is the dawn of the 43rd millennium, and there is no end in sight to the suffering that plagues the galaxy.

The Necrontyr rise in yet greater numbers, their enslaved gods cackle at what they have become.

The Eldar still linger, arrogance turning to despair as their fate turns to destruction.

The Great Devourer spreads ever further, a hunger never sated driving it onwards.

The barbaric Orks and their brutal lust for carnage sees them prosper in a galaxy torn to shreds, the eternal Waaagh echoes through the void.

The Naïve Tau and their Greater Good falter as they seek to expand, their dogma crushed by reality. Hope turns to ash in their mouths.

The Imperium fights no longer to crusade but to maintain, it's endless armies of brave mortals and valiant immortals barley enough to hold back the threats that assail them. Their Golden Guardian weeps as they suffer.

The defilers, the dreaded Dark Eldar in their kingdom of decadence cackle ever onwards, their archons and agonies growing in power from the bounty of a universe at war.

The doom forces of dissolution grow mighty, their dark gods fueled by the death, rage, despair, lust and greed of a war-torn galaxy, warbands of Traitor Astartes bring ruin upon the lives of innocents, dark malevolent things with unreal energies caper forth from the eye of terror, endless crusades launch from it's damning maw.

This is a time of madmen and paranoia, where evil is transcendent, as all people hold darkness within their hearts where daemons lurk in waiting. Where the Eldar fade, where the Tyranids hunger, where the Orks cry for war, where the God-Emperor is held prisoner on his own throne, unable to save those who he gave his physical being for.

It is where Dark Gods cackle as they push the dagger deeper into the heart of reality.

It is a place where to fear is to lose to the disparity.

It is a place where Chaos is supreme and Daemons run unopposed- free to slaughter and in turn be banished only to return once more. The undying face no reprisal as their pawns play on a board with no rules, there is no balance in this place, for the Anathema was brought low by a foul champion long ago.

They have won, now all that is left to the fell forces is to slide in the knife.

After all, what have they to fear; they are fear itself.

The past. It's memory _long_. It's hatred _deep_. It's patience _endless_.

The past never truly dies, though sometimes it may be forgotten. It is fixed, though departed. It waits for strings to pass by and those that remain hidden in its flow must be strong enough to grab hold of these strands that lead to the present.

These strings of chance span the vast space of reality, and sometimes they fall into the great tears in time and existence that are opened as the dissolution comes ever closer to its apex. As Immaterium and reality grow ever more interconnected, these strands fall ever further into the realm of inexistence and possibility. They flow long into the untamed realms of Chaos, far beyond the pantheon of the immortal fiends, to realms where no beast dares travel anymore, for long memories buried still linger their warnings of these places.

These are the dead realms, the old warp, the place of possibility and old powers long since faded but still watching, waiting for the time to feed upon the supple ash of daemon flesh and drink deep of their souls.

These are the realms of the Dark Soul. The palace of the warp-bane.

…

Krauzgracht the Unbroken; Warlord of Chaos, slaughter-fiend of ten thousand worlds and champion of Khorn, it was he who took the heads from ten of the Emperors bastard children- the silver knights who sought to deny chaos its victory; he wore their skulls around his neck even now. He saw the death of loyalist champions- broken under his boots.

He brought ruin upon the Ork Warboss Fanggutta with ease and conquered an entire system in Khorns name. He has seen to it that entire worlds were sacrificed to the red gaze of the Blood-God. He was a monster in the guise of a fallen Astartes, his soul burned with the red light of a Daemon of Khorn. Clad in an ancient plate as much as a part of him as he was of it, his massive terminator armor was wreathed in barbed chains, a cape of flesh from the Exarchs of countless flayed Eldar hung about his torso

A fanged auto cannon leaked with daemonic ichor and a terrible mockery of an imperial thunder hammer was grasped in his other hand, warp energies swirled about his form and the ground at his feet seemed to actively reject his very presence.

His anger was bottomless; he saw life burn before him many times, the sight of fear was old to him, as all before him trembled in the shadow of his might.

The feeling of it was new to him however.

He harkened back to the old days of the crusade, where he shouted the mantra of Space Marines, that they knew no fear.

That was a lie, for now he knew it, and his mind screamed at its existence within him. His corrupted twin hearts raced as if to purge the emotion from his veins. The daemon within his hammer wailed in terror as well, it thrashed within its rune-locked confines, desperate to escape it's vassal.

He ran from a monster greater than he could ever be.

He knew no words to describe it- he's slaughtered Grey-Knights and scoffed at the Damned Legionaries- the burning-bone Angyls of the Corpse-God, his wrath manifest- he would face a full score of those silent wraiths bedecked in fury a thousand times over rather than this singular, frail being.

His fury has long since been replaced by doubt, and then fear, into terror. The sight of seeing his chosen berserkers put low with almost dismissive ease, and then-

He smashed aside another of the decayed stone walls, the ruins yielded to his bulk and almost exploded outwards. For the first time in his countless eons of war did he rage against his twisted body, no longer was it of that of an Astartes but now that of a Daemon infused Warlord, cumbersome and immortal, immune to harm, but just that- cumbersome. He could no longer move in the swift and precise manner of his pawns in pilfered power armor. He had only ever regretted assuming this form in the manner as he could no longer lead the charge into the glory of combat, as to do so would mean for his forces to shuffle as a stately, placid pace behind him as he stomped angrily across the fields of battle.

The stonework of the bridge was pummeled beneath the weight of his boots as he pounded across the span of the thing, his body carrying him ever closer to the point of origin, the place where they had made planet fall on this damned world. The crumbling spires seemed to mock him from behind the mountain that separated these two castles, each one though was shared in the faded working of their halls, ancient bloodstones and desiccated corpses lay everywhere, ancient beyond ancient armor lay scattered about. He was about to dismiss one such of these armors he stepped over until he realized it as Astartes plate.

One of his berserker's, one of his fiends that were supposed to stay and hold open the portal, the chained sorcerer their entrance and exit both.

He halted his desperate retreat for only a moment, as he saw the death of his escape sprawl before him. Bolter wounds perforated the back of his warrior; each one was placed with extreme precision and tact.

Loyalist dogs…

He felt his malice spike, but every moment was a new education in Fear, doubt sundered his rage and devoured his contempt. Every action was second-guessed, his thoughts now controlled by the urge to survive- to persist.

He had to get off this damned planet; to fail in doing so would mean- He turned his bulk, eyes searching the tarnished palace halls behind him. He snarled, blood dripped from lidless eyes.

Enough! He was Khornate! He would smash this fear like all other things that challenged him! 

He lumbered around the corner, his frame scraping the sides of the narrow passage; he forced his way through the decayed sewer. The eroded face of a cliff greeted his visage, once green grass grew in failing patches as he lumbered down stairs that began to crumble away long before he and his ilk set foot on this lost planet. Further back, amidst ancient ruins he saw what he had prayed to not see.

A loyalist Thunderhawk, clad in the colors of the damned Dark-Angles, children of the Lion assailed his chosen. They were after Calio, no doubt, the traitor among traitors. His Warband of chosen chased the Fallen-fool across the eye of terror after he made off with a prized relic: an Ancient STC that he had pried from the hands of the mechanicus itself, he had followed that exploratory fleet for decades for this opportunity, and that damned Fallen Angle had stolen it!

He may or may have not bartered with the Dark Angles, in return for the location of Calio they would look the other way while they raided a holy world of the Corpse Emperor, full of his Whores in battle plate. He never once expected them to honor such a deal, he himself was plotting to betray them as soon as they found the damned fool Calio, but for _them_ to betray _him_ before _he_ could betray _them_ was unthinkable! It brought rage into his hearts, a paradoxical rage that was soothing to only one who knew the ways of the Blood God.

For the moment he overpowered the fear that raced through his system as he let loose a howling challenge that only a servant of Khorn could possess, his hammer raised high and the arm mounted Auto cannon roared as fiery bolts of Daemonic origin screeched, the tormented shells exploding into warpfire upon impact.

He faced down ten of the Dark Angles, each clad in terminator plate, deep cowls drawn down over their heads. He had caught them by surprise, they did not expect the Warlord himself to face them so soon; but they did not know the fate he had suffered on this world, they did not know that he was the last of his band of thousands.

They did not know fear, like he knew now.

Cursed rounds thundered against their armor, the field of an iron halo broke and the following burst of fire tore into the drawn cowl and pulped the noble features that it hid. He cycled another drum into the feed, by now they had returned fire- stormbolters barking in retaliation, but they knew as well as he that such weapons were ill suited to the task of felling a terminator clad chaos warlord, and he weathered the storm as he would a heavy rain. It was the assault cannon that drew his attentions. The incessant whine of its rotating barrels barley loud enough to announce its presence before the deluge of automatic weapons fire followed.

Armor Piercing rounds found their range- tearing up the cliff face behind him and tearing a deep gouge across his right pauldron. He redirected his auto cannons twin barrels towards the source of such a maelstrom of punishment even as his armor was cratered by bolt shots and armor piercing assault cannon rounds. His return volley struck true.

To his disgust he saw he had only managed to 'wound' the assault cannon-bearing loyalist, his arm had been torn off- quite a feat, he would admit from such an angle, but an auto cannon was anything but discerning in what wounds it dealt. He racked another drum as he began his advance down, where he would meet his foes and if fortune would have him- a means of escape, be it their thunder hawk or a desecrated portal, he no longer cared. He chanced another quick glance back the way he came.

The Dark angels had adapted, but it was no surprise, even as he ejected the last few rounds from his auto cannon into the newly erected storm-shield phalanx, the last burst of from his now useless cannon plinked off the energized slabs of adamantium, and so he shook the daemon infused weapon free from his arm, the chitin black fangs that held it to his form chattering as he knocked them away, letting the weapon fall to the dead earth. Now limbered and free, he took his hammer in a double fisted grip, relishing the way the haft pulsed underneath his gauntlets, the promises of daemonic power coursing through his system if he were to let go of his mortal frame, and as always, he ignored these entrapments.

He let himself be lost in the lust of battle, fear forgotten for the time being as he threw himself into the midst of the Dark Angles, his hammer howled with him, daemonic maws warping into existence as he brought it down on the first storm-shield, the maws gripped and tore at the plate, sundering it as it smashed through the protective field, the shield itself, and into the Dark Angel beneath. Such was the result of his first strike, his weapon tore free as he thundered past, his heavily armored frame knocking aside those who stood shoulder to shoulder with their now fallen brother, a grisly rent in his chest plate- he swung around even as the first regained his bearings and drew a power maul, energy rippled across the striking flat- he tore it to shreds with his second strike, the weapon smashed to bits as his hammer made contact with the hand that gripped it and followed up into a rising strike that caught the Dark Angel just under the jaw- his face was pulverized and ripped free.

Two! From behind, an axe rose to strike him down, but Krauzgracht was the quicker, he spun and drove the butt of his hammer into the helm of the sergeant- the talons ripped through the visor and into the brain.

Three! From the left this time, a stormbolter aimed for his head, he loosened the grip on his hammer as he swung, the momentum now putting his grip at the base and extending its range, the flat of his weapon pulverized the terminator on contact, crumpling the loyalists armor just under the arm that held the stormbolter, and turning his insides into a red mist.

Four! A bellow of rage from one wielding a thunder hammer, energy discharges erupting from its head- this will be tricky. He let the momentum from his last kill flow into his swing- he tore his hammer through the body of the stormbolter bearing Angel, his armor giving him the strength to do so, and spun as it tore free. His strike was brutal and fast, it had to be- just as the Angel raised his thunder hammer, Krauzgracht brought his own- still ripe with the blood of the freshly slain up from under and into the terminators guard, the hammer striking true and smashing through the legs of the terminator in a single swing. He did not get the chance to feel pain as the backswing from Krauzgracht splintered his helm and skull. The Chaos Warlord howled in savage delight, blood erupting from the pulped remains and misting in the air. He could smell the blood so clearly now, and the pulsing rage in the back of his head started to beat a steady trip hammer rhythm, he eyed the next contender with a hungry, feral intensity-

And then the Captain stepped forward.

He was dressed in Errant mark powered armor, the Eighth mark. This was artificer armor, the embroidery of the mantle, the calligraphy inscriptions so lovingly attended to in gold and silver. His trained eyes could spot that with ease, and he held with him an ancient blade, nothing else. He was not surprised, if anything, the Sons of the Lion needed only a blade to best whatever foe faced them. Anything else would just get in the way.

The Dark angel captain tilted up his winged helm, and raised his blade to him; Krauzgracht the Unbroken grinned, and met his challenge.

To witness this clash was a privilege unworthy to those who survived his charge, Krauzgracht told himself as the arm that once bore his Auto cannon was torn away from him by the sparking sword, and his Daemon hammer cunningly parried aside from his remaining hand. Now weaponless, and without a means to guard against the ancient blade the captain wielded with such disgusting ease, Krauzgracht did what came naturally.

With a savage roar he leaped forwards, and although the Captain countered by driving his blade through the chaos warlords chest, Krauzgracht was filled with the rage of Khorn and he was beyond mortal wounds. 

He tore the helmet from the Captains head, his armored fist crushing the winged helmet, the sudden severance from its neural interface briefly stunning the Captain, but not stunning him so much as he forgot to tear his blade free from the chest of the savage warlord. He yanked it free and stumbled back. He let instinct override and brought his blade up in an effort to parry an unseen blow- the flat of the blade deflecting the path of the chaos warlords fist just enough that it missed his exposed head by mere inches, while the impact was not lethal the result was- the blade, now weak in the captains grip and its grip slick with blood- was knocked away. Krauzgracht roared in triumph, and fell upon the captain, kicking one foot out and knocking him to the ground.

He raised his fist to bring it down upon the exposed skull of the snarling Dark Angel- who had fought with much skill and savagery- for a loyalist dog. He was to give him a warriors death from a champion of Khorn, but then he was reminded why the Dark Angles were the chapter truly devoid of Honor.

The treacherous chainfist cut through his back and severed his spine in one savage motion. His kill denied, he fell to a knee, the treacherous Terminator brought his chainfist down on his back once again, sending him sprawling into the small clearing at the center of this would-be arena, his bulk crushed what seemed to be a pile of ash and bone.

…

Captain Azgia stood; his vision coming back into focus as his enhanced physiology repaired what wounds it could, for he had many.

Not as many as many as most of his brothers, but enough that he could not feel most of his battered body. He was sure his armor would need many days with the techmarines before it could see war once again.

Five.

Five brothers dead at the hands of Krauzgracht, on this day, how many had he slain in total? Five hundred? Maybe more? It was of no matter though. Krauzgracht had been delivered what one such as him deserved, death and dishonor at the hands of the Dark Angles. They had pursued their true quarry, the Fallen Angel Calio to this damned world, and had yet to find him. They knew he could not escape, and it would be mere hours before they bound him in chains and left him to the tender mercies of Asmodiah.

All the better, Azgia now told himself, spitting a gobbet of congealed blood and retrieving his blade, quickly running a skilled eye along its surface to ensure it had sustained no fouling.

This place felt… Wrong.

Not merely wrong in the way that came from being nearly beyond the light of the Atranomicon, but at the fundamental level he knew it to be damned in more ways then he could imagine.

They saved what they could of their brothers Gene-Seed, the brother apothecary had lost an arm to the cursed Krauzgrachts' cannon, yet he still lived.

The Emperors grace lies in small mercies.

And the Emperors benediction lies within his Space Marines.

The foul Krauzgracht still drew breath; albeit barley- his body was ruined by brother Galin's chainfist. His back was a ruined mess of flesh and metal, yet the Warlord still clung to life, cursing and spitting foul things at him and his Brothers, mainly about their lack of expansive genitals. Not for long, though. Azgia would see to that. He wordlessly planted his boot on the gorgot of the Warlord, his relic sabre raised to deliver an executioners blow.

It was then that Krauzgracht laughed.

"You think yourself victorious? Don't you, Dark Angel." The half growl half snarl of the Warlord was toxic to his ears, yet he listened for some reason. "You think I would attack you alone? I am Korhnate yes, but I am no fool! My Warband is dead, Loyalist, destroyed at the hands of a beast that saw me flee for the first time in my long millennia, I was but a child before it's might,"

Azgia had heard the confession of many traitors before he laid them low, he knew the names of many warlords and champions, and each boasted himself to be unbeatable, and he killed them all. Yet Krauzgracht was one he never thought to do the same, Krauzgracht never boasted his victories; he merely launched himself into battle and took their skulls before moving onto his next quarry, a brutal and efficient hunter. Yet here he was, dying, and he did not curse his killer? He even admitted to weakness, to _fear_ of all things.

This is what made Azgia realize the folly that was his for trespassing on this planet, for there was no other word for this action.

"You will die today, Dark Angel, but not at my hand, you will die as Calio did, and as all my Warriors." He thought Krauzgracht dead as his head slumped to the side, but it was only when he followed his gaze did he speak again. "Already your doom comes, your souls are now forfeit. To both your Corpse god and my Dark Gods." Krauzgracht died then, laughing. His body heaved one last time before the ancient Astartes of the World Eaters fell silent and cold.

"Calio Is dead? The traitor speaks lies. As they all do." Around him, his brothers gathered, but Azgia stayed silent, his mind pondered the last words of Krauzgracht.

"No," Azgia spoke at last, his sword's glow faded as he thumbed the power rune and returned the blade to his side where it maglocked. "This traitor had no reason to lie, mad as he may be." The Captain swept his gaze across the ruined landscape. Dark clouds hung overheard. The decayed ruins of what must have once been a grand courtyard lay in pieces; a graveyard lay just beyond the hill. Beside the body of Krauzgracht lay a small fire pit it would seem, a twisted blade plunged into the ground. It was old.

Very old.

"Regardless, even if he still lived, what way would he flee? This planet is lost, this system damned and this world is dead. We need only shatter this planet and be done with it. I say we linger here no longer."

The ramp to the Thunderhawk dropped by his command, and together he and his brothers embarked upon the mighty war machine. Heedless of the fact that as they boarded, one of the brothers of Azgia paused and grasped the twisted sword of the fire pit and pulled it out of it's home. Studying the strange blade the Marine saw fit to claim it for himself; he would forge it in the fires of the Rock later, and make it a blade worthy of an Astartes to commemorate the deaths of Krauzgracht and Calio.

…

The rush, the sweet taste of life fading from the things eyes as it was drowned in the sea inside itself.

It ran metal hands across the smooth surface of the armor, tracing one finger around the gaping wound that leaked black blood; the blade slid free, another gout splashed across the mantle and onto the floor.

It had been _so_ long…

It was nearly drunk with mad greed and lust; the room behind it was a mess with corpses, countless giant, armored corpses, each of them dead by blade, each of them drained of life and flame. All too soon the body was cold and empty, life that once filled it sucked dry. Already the hunger gnawed at its mind, the black skulking jaws whispered into its subconscious, fueling the desires that seemed now only to exist so as to drive what little remained of the shells' own awareness.

Thirty—no, fifty- of the red giants things had attacked it this time, far less than before, back in the Catacombs and the ruins of Anor Londo. It had been surprised at first; it had been eons since the last living in this land had died to feed its hunger. It couldn't even remember the last time it had fed; only that it had been long, long ago.

Immortality was such a tiresome thing…

It briefly wondered if the half-breed felt the same, perhaps it should have asked her before it spilled her bowels across the stone and devoured her sweet, succulent soul.

It caressed the snarling helm, cool to the touch and flecked with its owner's vita. It should have given thanks to these interlopers; really, it had been so long since the scent of blood roused it's dead heart to the familiar beat of slaughter.

Laughing would be appropriate right now, but it was too hungry. It could vaguely make out sharp thunderous cracking sounds in the distance, it gave it reason to pause. It had hunted those that made such noise before. It rose from its position of straddling the armored being.

More of them.

More souls to feed upon.

A blade returned to its sheath, and deceptively soft metal steps echoed down the ruined hallway, craters and gauges in the wall marking this place as one of combat turned to death.

…

The Thunderhawk was not as cramped as Azgia thought it should have been. But he expected as much, Krauzgracht did not leave much to be retrieved of their fallen battle brothers. Their bodies had crumpled under the might of his Daemonic thunder hammer. Brothers had fallen, but they died doing what was asked of them. The chapter could not ask for much more than that.

His eyes traces across what brothers remain, Tempos, Cruion, Thanus, Gavius… "Brother, What is that?" He snapped, his attention drawn to the long metal spike that Brother Gavius grasped. "It is a blade My Lord. It is a blade unlike any I have seen." He responded, his voice taciturn and cool.

"It came from the planet?" Azgia asked.

"Indeed, from a pit of flame."

"It is tainted metal." Azgia concluded. "It must be disposed of."  
His law was word and Brother Gavius silently hissed at the decision, his eyes tracing the edge of the blade one last time. "Very well, I shall break it myself." He sighed. "But first I shall remember its make and construct, I wish to forge such a blade myself." He met his Captains gaze, asking this of him. Azgia nodded curtly, agreeing to the compromise.

That was the mistake that damned them. For if they knew the Object they ferried, they would not be so keen as to bring it to the worlds beyond.

…

-/Flames of Contempt/-

-/Hanger/-

The thunderhawk touched down with all the grace a several ton warship could manage. It was testament to the skill of the pilot that the impact of the landing gears upon the deck plating was only slightly jarring. The docking clamps engaged normally, and without the need of the ministrations of a Techpriest.

The ramp lowered, and Azgia was the first off, the steps of his power-armored boots echoing in the cavernous hanger bay of the strike cruiser. Rife with devotionals and purity seals, the entire ship was more akin to a shrine to the Machine-god. The silent red-robed figures haunted almost every corner, snaking mechendrites plugged into ports and cogitator terminals. Azgia never liked the scions of the Machine God, never trusted them. Their ilk was of a different creed and calling.

He didn't ruminate over the scions-of-mars for much longer, the dead were led off next, marines carrying their lost brothers upon a slab of metal. They would be interred in the Flames Reclusium, their armor blessed and removed so that another may wear it one day. Five empty suits of armor would decorate the armory, previous names etched upon their sacred surface, waiting for the next marine to carry those names into battle with him when the time came.

Five brothers, veterans of the deathwing. Lost. Now they were but names.

Azgia still could hardly believe they had lost that many.

Gavius.

Azgia looked back at him, that long, slender spike of old iron from the cursed planet was clutched in one hand. It looked puny when wielded by the hulking terminator.

Azgia stilled his tongue before he could speak, he knew he had agreed to let his Brother memorize its shape and temper, though he could not understand why he would want to forge a blade of its kind- it looked more for stabbing and ceremony then actual combat use. "Brother." He relented, and spoke.

"Yes, my lord?" Gavius broke off from his route that would undoubtedly take him to the forge. "What is it that you need?"

"That blade," Azgia gestured. "Have the brother librarian scour it for warp taint, then you may forge something of its shape in blessed adamantium." It was a simple precaution, and he could see no harm in doing so, though he still couldn't shake the feeling that it should not have been taken. The feeling that he should not have let that damned skewer be carried aboard the Flame of Contempt. "Of course, Captain Azgia." Gavius was amicable enough, if anything Azgia could assume that was his plan all along. He felt guilty for assuming otherwise.

He would have reprimanded Gavius for glancing at the spike of metal, should have, even. Gavius was a veteran, a long serving one with many marks of honor in his duty to the emperor and the chapter. Pursuing any course of recrimination against him would sit ill with the rest of his squad. He was still young, and his captaincy was fresh. He only had several decades as a member of the deathwing, and there were those who spoke behind his back of more worthy leaders then he.

He couldn't afford to look weak, but standing against the Honorable Gavius over something so minor as this would not bode well for the future.

He dismissed Gavius to his duties. Azgia took his leave the hanger immediately, though, instead of making for the reclusium to oversee the interment of his fallen brothers, he made for the bridge.

…

-/Flames of Contempt/-

-/Librarius/-

Codicer Sevian felt the things approach before Gavius had even turned the corner that lead to his chambers. It was a cold emptiness not unlike the aura of a blank or pariah. It was restrained. That was what caught his attention, that, and the core that he sensed at the center: A roiling core of warp power surrounded by a hateful emptiness.

He rose as the doors swung open and Gavius entered without preamble. Out of respect he kept his preternatural senses from leeching the thoughts from his brothers conscious, but it did not take warp sight to understand that he saw fit to make a blade like it.

"Gavius." The Librarian nodded, removing his helm. His expression was tinged with doubt. His brother picked up on it almost at once. "Something troubles you Sevian?" Gavius asked, also removing his helm in the librarians' presence. Absently he regarded the room's interior, scrolls and tomes lined the shelves that made up the chambers walls, votive candles and lumen globes were scattered about. A brass relief of an Aquila swung from the ceiling on chains.

"That sliver you carry," Sevian asked. "Where did you get it?" Gavius shrugged off the whip sharp mannerisms of the Librarian; he was usually aloof in nature and did not take kindly to interruptions of whatever tome he was delving into. "From the planet below-" The blade was plucked from his grasp by the psychic pull of the Librarian, it levitated gently in the air before them, twisting and turning with invisible pulses of power. "You took an artifact from a warp tainted planet?" The accusation was clear enough.

"The planet was not tainted as we first suspected, my lord." Gavius fell back to the old honorific; Sevian was clearly agitated by this development. "There were no visible signs of corruption aside from the presence of the traitors."

"The powers of chaos are subtle and often times invisible to those without the curse of witch sight. What you might think to be a chapel may secretly be a hive of warpspawn." He spoke as if schooling a dull child. Gavius bristled silently at the hidden barb.

"I will be taking possession of this object, it reeks of ill-powers." Clipped and curt, Sevian dismissed the Terminator from his sanctum, Gavius obeyed without question, yet he was still glowering at the loss of his prize.

…

The rites of Exterminautus were lengthy, and given to long bouts of silent waiting as ancient astropathic channels were opened, and clearances gained. Only the Inquisition could commence the death rites of an entire world without preamble, as their power was second only to the emperor. Any other organization that wished to commit to holy Exterminautus was forced to go through the proper channels of authority to gain both the weapons and writ of consent that would enable one to consign a planet to the cold and unforgiving void.

The Dark Angels were different.

Azgia ran his gauntleted hand over the runes that made up the cogitator panel, on its screen was a simple list of options concerning the firing sequences of the Strike Cruisers orbital bombardment systems. Only one gun was currently loaded, and its payload was no simple macro shell, nor were any of the lance batteries primed for precision strikes against surface installations.

Just one, simple, cannon.

The Life Eater Virus, banned from use by the imperium through the holy writ of the Inquisition for reasons unknown. Subsequently, very few canisters of the lethal toxin remained in the Imperium. The Dark Angels held a disturbingly large stockpile of the compound, and a smidgeon of that contagion was given to Azgia for the purpose of this mission. The volatile chemical was already sealed in the primed macro battery, the warhead was set to release an aerosol spray of the repugnant stuff as it fell to the planet below, allowing for maximum dispersal. Once the virus had reduced all organic matter into biological slurry, the warhead would detonate from wherever the parachute had let it fall, and the explosion would ignite the atmosphere, and reduce this tainted world into a lifeless rock. Not even bacterial life would survive.

"This is the power that Inquisitors wield." He breathed. "To hold the fate of systems in the palm of their hand…"

"My lord?" A serf approached, head bowed in respect, and robes spotless. "The Priests await your command. The Honorable Chaplain does as well."

Reminded of his duties, Azgia deftly swiped his hand across the Cogitator screen, and tapped the 'Fire' option. A slight rumble from outside the ship to his left was all he needed to hear to know that the warhead was already on its parabolic course into the damned worlds' atmosphere. "Tell the techpriests that we can be off as soon as they beseech the machine spirits." He glanced to the Serf, who bowed lower. "I go to attend my fallen brothers."

…

Dust in the sky, an orange haze streaking along behind a fallen star.

Dead eyes stare upwards, eyes that have seen far more than any sane being should, but it made no claims to sanity, it hadn't for many long eons.

The dust floated, drifting along like a rusty cloud.

It paid no heed to the fields that fell fallow in overgrown pastures beyond as the orange haze fell across the land, seeming to devour shattered towns below the grand fallen spires of Anor Londo.

It sat, and waited.

Something had stolen from its fire.

Something had taken its keep. Its trinket reminder of days long past. A worn boot kicked at the bones of a crushed fire pit. The red hulking behemoth had been heavy, but it had rolled it aside eventually.

It had not been pleased to discover what was missing.

It glanced away, seeing the roiling orange spill out over the crags of the distant asylum. Pouring into the gap between it and the blighted mountains. It wondered if the Asylum had already been swallowed.

It could tell that this world was dying. The silence that had haunted it was gone, now there was only a trill sound of decay. It was no stranger to decay but this was total annihilation. A decomposing of all that these feted realms had stood for.

As the orange death crept up the sides of the Bonfire sanctuary, it wondered what oblivion would taste like. It didn't stop thinking this, even as its atrophied frame began to sag, muscle stripped from bones, and eyes turning to slurry.

…

Sevian found he could not besmirch Brother Gavius for his kleptomaniacal tendencies, as he too was finding himself increasingly intrigued by the twisted blade. It was currently held atop a pedestal, handle gripped by a two pronged vice. Sevian held his hands palms down over the blade, as if he were a preacher baptizing a newborn child.

Psychic energy played off his fingers, caressing the blade, each tendril scuttling about its surface, trying to pick apart its secrets. He had felt the ship shudder twice in the past hour.

The first was the signal that announced the death of a world, the second, was the engines spooling up and preparing to carry them away from the planet and into warpspace once the priests had beseeched the machine spirits of the warp drive properly, and the Gellar fields were made doubly secure.

Azgia had came by just minutes ago, inviting Sevian to attend the service that would honor the fallen brothers, but the librarian had paid no heed to hearing him, instead focusing his mental efforts on unraveling the mysterious of this damned strip of metal.

It pulsed.

As if it were alive.

An iron skin dancing with a formless fluidity that did not twist nor bend but seemed to shift and expand—growing in ones mind but inert in their eyes. The entirety of this blade seemed wrong, seemed tormented, but not in ways likened to the corrupted charms of Chaos.

This was something wholly different and all the more terrible for it. The unblemished surface was of an unknown metal: strong and resilient to the touch of his hands and machines. The blade itself though was of little martial use.

If anything it was purely ceremonial, perhaps needed for some sort of wicked pagan ritual? If such were the case, then the chapters Chaplin's would see to its disposal. But for now, it pulsed, harmlessly, the seemingly endless core of power leached into the aura of blank nothingness that surrounded it.

But it was in there, hidden. Occluded by the smothering Empty.

A flicker, a recurrence.

As if finding a long lost memory tucked away deep within the confines of eternity, endlessly searching until the remembrancer at long last lives.

The Librarian focused his mental strength his eyes clenched in concentration as he drew the spark he felt from the metal thing, it struggled, and it resisted his commands. "Damn you, spiteful thing, what does it take?" Again he imagined closing a fist around the soul-spark he saw within the ornate ceremonial knife, and he pulled, unceasing even when he felt as if his astral projection would burn its false self on the impossibly hot ember.

And it was then that the blade burst from it's confines, it's metal edges cutting deep into the plate decking, ethereal flames seemed to dance wildly around the sword, two twins whips of fire circled the hilt, burning softly as an unseen energy buffeted the Librarian, it repulsed him but at the same time did not dissuade him from further action. Already the Librarian had taken swift steps back as the blade impaled itself in the deck.

The psychic warrior did not know what to make of this development, as he drew forth a energy sheathed force sword holding it in a guard position he stared at the twisted blade that now seemed to come life,

It was then that several different things occurred, the first would be the psychic hammer blow the librarian staggered back from, followed by the navigators upon the ship screaming in agony and Astropaths clawing at where eyes had once been, curses tumbled from their lips as they spat forth forbidden knowledge that granted them the Emperors mercy in the form of a bolt pistol to the temple, only seven of the original thirty remained. The last anomaly would be the most alarming, for several seconds the Gellar fields failed.

Panic erupted across the ship as alarms blared, warning of Daemon incursions.

They never came. The Daemons. The Cruiser continued onwards, it's prow cutting through raw warp stuff. The Scions of Mars on board of the Strike Cruiser confirmed that their Geller Fields had failed, the cogitators that were slaved to them were silent and dead, their machine spirits cold, yet still no warp anomalies intruded upon the Strike Cruiser.

If the Astropaths, those that remained would dare to see with their warpsight they would see the mad cackling Daemons that plagued the warp all around their sanctuary-ship, silent and cursing. Circling like stalking predators surrounding a cornered bull, hunger held at bay by caution. The feast on board was sweet and tender, but the mortals… They held in their possession that. …Thing.

The Librarian stood before the relic, the twisted blade, and the twin flames danced slowly around the dull metal. His mind ached; the throbbing power this relic gave off was like no other. Every living thing gave off a psychic presence in the warp. Human minds, quick bright bursting glorious sparks that faded as quickly as they began, the Tau: muddied and dull embers, Daemons: insidious and corrupting shadows, the Tyranids: theirs was the absence of presence save for the dominating hive mind, the Eldar, subtle, bright flames that that danced along the strings of the Warp, Necrons, empty carcasses filled with the baleful hate of dread C'tan. The Astartes, such as he, brilliant golden conflagrations that forced back the shadows.

This had a spark, but just the echo of one. It reached outwards and bypassed all barriers; his own psychic defenses were not breached, but bypassed as if they were simply not there to begin with. The pain it imposed on his mind was immense, a carnivorous destroying pressure that nearly brought him to his knees and as he moved for the exit so far away it seemed.

So great was the pain in his mind, that he did not foresee the blade that struck him low.


	2. Act II: The Six Hundred and Sixty Sixth

The records of the Death of the Flames of Contempt are shrouded in secrecy and blood.

In the depths of the Rock, a fragment of lost Caliban is stored in a case of adamantium. Upon its surface are said to be the names of the Fallen. It is held in stasis, its whereabouts within the shattered remains of Caliban known only to the chapter's masters, and the ever-secretive watchers. They say that there are two things that reside within that hidden chamber in these dark days.

The forbidden stone lost of old Calaban, clutched to its surface the mysteries of the Fallen, and a ships servitor, torn from the electronic harness that cradled it during its service on the Flames of Contempt.

The Servitor holds a mystery, one even darker then that of the Fallen, perhaps. Within its crystal memory is pict feeds, and locations. It tells of a perilous journey through the warp, to the edge of the eye of terror, to a damned and lost planet. It holds the recorded dates, times, and mission parameters, a virtual black box of a lost ship. It shows when the Contempt died, and how.

When its warp engines failed, it was above a blighted world, a planet long under siege from the many foes of Man. Valimori primus.

Deep within the folds of the segmentum obscura in the late years of the 43rd millennium, Valimori had been under siege for years, suffering the gentle ministrations of an ork horde that had gone unchecked. It had been passed off as a minor Klan, easily dispatched by PDF. As it is to be suspected, the PDF had not been thorough in their cleansing of the world, and within time the Green Horde was resurrected under a new, cleverer warboss.

The situation quickly deteriorated, turning from a purge to a resistance, to a failing retreat to the last safe havens as the green tide crashed upon them.

It was to their fortune that a crusading fleet heard the desperate cries of the peoples of this world. A fraction of the crusade fleet diverted to aid Valimori primus. Two Astartes companies of the Doom Eagles and several Imperial Guard Regiments, among them was the 1457th Krieg Heavy siege regiment.

The void conflict was quick, and brutal, the minor Ork vessels were mostly ramshackle things called to this world from neighboring systems to join the forces of the Orks already present, it is no surprise that in the debris strewn about the orbit of the planet, that a single strike cruiser- so decayed by age and abuse was mistakenly seen as an Ork ship, and swatted aside like all others, and in short time it fell into the atmosphere of Valimori, and with its impact it destroyed several minor Hive cities.

With any paltry orbital forces destroyed, the deliverance of this world began in short order, the Marines struck like thunder, drop pods smashed into the crust of the planet below, scattering Ork warbands as the valiant marines strode forth with bolter and chainsword.

The disruption granted the reprieve the defenders required in order to rally the few remaining strongpoints that remained. Sororitas, sisters of battle, the brides of The Emperor, the might of the ecclesiarch, they alone held back the green tide from the faithful.

Now they returned every death of the innocent with a score of Ork corpses. The Imperial guard is vast, yet their glories are always the most humble. Every victory bought in the blood of young martyrs so very far from home, specks of light flaring briefly within the void of despair.

Overshadowed by the superhuman demigods, the zealous fury of His daughters, these men and women are children in their shadow. Yet behold the children's eyes, fierce with fire and innocence, hope unmolested and bonded with the fire of friends and family, an impenetrable wall of unsung hero's, undaunted and willing to shed their mortal being so that another may breathe once more they care not of the odds so long as it cause is justly so.

But it is not their glories that are bespoken of today.

There are many legends within the imperium, many are just petty things, but no matter their viability or grandeur both great and small, they persist, all of them have their homes though.

Within the Guard, there are many a battlefield tale or myth, old superstitions still followed by varying regiments. The knocking against the side of a Hydra tank supposedly giving good fortune and protection, the bond between a Leman Russ and its crew, the supposed tech heresy that Engineseers partake in, their belief in the existence of an 'omnisaiha' supposedly lacking. Among Astartes there are superstitions, the legion of the damned and grey knights are among the most prominent, as for the Sisters of Battle, they replace myth with the assentation of Faith, battlefield phenomena are viewed as miracles and acts of the Divine Emperor.

As varied as many of these myths are, some more prevalent then others, there is one myth that is told throughout the organizations of the Imperium of man, from the humble guardsman to the lofty inquisitor.

It is the tale of The Eater.

The first slough of stories cropped up upon Valimori. They were bombastic tales, borderline heretical in some cases. Tales about a lone figure appearing on the field of strife, places where heresy had grown out of control amongst the populace of the lower Valimori hives and eventually the unthinkable occurred and these despondent few drew the baleful attention of chaos, and suffered their ministrations.

The Daemons would run rampant amongst the people, sewing despair and havoc, slaughtering all as they went, arrogant and gleeful in their immortality.

That would change, as seemingly without preamble the slaughters would stop, as a figure in impossibly archaic plate would stride forth from the ruins: clad in blood-stained, scratched, dulled silver metal, wielding a sword and shield of unknown design and his shield would bear a crest unknown to men of history.

It would throw itself into the calamity of scum known as daemons, it's blade hewing limbs and severing heads with dismissive ease. As the Daemons would try to destroy the interloper, they themselves would be cut down and destroyed, wailing in abject horror as their soul was consumed, condemning them to oblivion.

As it devoured the souls of the daemons it would grow in power, hacking and slashing at cultist and daemon alike, not even stopping when the hulking form of Chaos space marines would appear through the rend in reality.

These stories were seen as merely accounts of a fearful populace telling of comforting words to soothe their panicked people whom of which constantly feared the possibility of imminent destruction.

But then the stories started spreading, and each became more frequent, and each one took years to investigate, so as in the meantime the stories went on. They spread further from their point of origin and soon inquisitors themselves began confirming reports of a stranger in in ancient armor with shield and blade, ducking into combat, sword held low but striking with speed that made even the immortal Astartes balk at the rapidity of its motion.

The ork warboss- Bigaburna Mekkaking was said to meet it in combat, and with a silent challenge the two fought. Surrounded by a greater conflict, Astartes and Guardsmen locked in a hellish fight with nobs and boyz. The combat was lost to them as the obscuring bulk of a wave of killa kanz descended into the fray.

There were other sightings on this planet, what became as the first appearance of The Eater. Sometimes it fought against the Imperium, other times, alongside it.

During the liberation of a dead Hive on Valimori, several guard companies stormed its spires of the upper levels, purging Orks from the upper reactor levels. They met the dead bodies of Ork boyz, their fungal nature leveling the long dead corpses in biological slurry that was removed with the aid of flamers.

It came through the flames of promethium, leaping amongst them with that ancient blade. It swerved past beams of las light, stoic silver helm giving them nothing, not the barest hint of emotion as it clambered after the retreating forces of Guard.

It cut past Flak armor and into yielding flesh, sergeants and commissars fell first, struck down before they could even reach for their own blades, and the common troopers fell soon after, the silver Eater darting down into the depths of the have as soon as the last man fell.

For several decades, similar reports spread through the Imperium, a Silver Knight wreaking destruction throughout imperial and enemy lines, slaying without regard for who or what fell beneath the arc of its blade.

It appeared like a force of nature, unrelenting and uncaring. It stopped on the storm lashed world of Cor.

A Brotherhood of the Grey Knights descended upon the dead lump of rock drifting aimlessly through the Cril system, at the edge of the segmentum octavious.

…

For nearly three hundred years he has served, and he has slain twenty times as many. He could bear aloft his name upon a pyre of those he had sacrificed to the god-emperors throne in tribute, but he was more then just a slaughter-fiend howling the name of the Master of Mankind and those of his founding fathers. His calling was to fight in the name of a simple creed, yes, but in that creed he carried many burdens.

The first burden was that of anonymity, and it was the lesser of his aches. He knew that he would never be recognized in the annals of honor that made up the wider imperium. His name would never ring in the stories of Ollanius Pious- a saint he greatly admired for his purity of purpose: to be the shield in life and death, to let others realize their potential, something the tenants the Imperial Guard held to- Yarrik, Dante, Celestine, Stubbs, Creed, and countless others. For to hold such thoughts of pride were anathema to his order, the only pride he could wield was that he was of mankind, that he was wrought from the genetic legacy of the Emperor. To hold any pride or hubris that was not of that legacy would be a sin- a potential weakness.

The second was subtle but sharp. It was of watching, of standing idle when foes reared their heads and called for slaughter. Him and his were trapped by their creation and the fight that damned them to be caged in that grinding war- a war eternal. Every one of his brethren was tailored against their foe and to be 'wasted' on those not of their ilk was heathen. So they watched, they watched when they could have intervened and struck down an enemy unsuspecting. Be it Ork, Eldar, Tau, Tyranid, Necron or any of the thousand xenos races, if it did not bend knee to the Dark Powers, than it was denied their wrath. All for the sake of secrecy.

The third burden of his kind was to know the truth. They knew that their war was without end. It was without end for there were only two outcomes known to them. It was either the eternal deadlock they maintained through sacrifice and zeal, or absolute destruction, a rise of the abyss and cessation of known reality. Their foes craved the ultimate blasphemy that was the subsuming of reality and sanity, to break the walls between warp and materium so that their dark gods may rule unopposed. It was a victory that drew nearer each waking day, for their servants were deathless and immortal, while the Master of Mankind's were but mortal men, women, and Astartes, all shielded by blessed ignorance. All save for them- the Ordos Malleus and Hereticus of His Holy Inquisition.

He does not balk at the enormity asked of him, he does not doubt, nor does he grow afraid- for he does not know of fear aside from it being the flaw that his enemies live in when his shadow is cast upon them by his blade rising above him- holy light cascading from its surface.

He grows weary; the prospect of such endless slaughter without cessation- no time to genuflect and wield his preternatural senses in pursuit of contemplating the words of the Emperor and His saints is tiring. To be gifted with such strength of mind and be allowed only to use it in acts of divine retribution some would say is a blessing, while others see it as shackles, the Blood Ravens subscribing to both first and latter if one were to know their less-than-sanctified origins.

His Ire does not stir impotently, doubt or petulance does not overcome him, no such qualms awaken at his reality of combat, dreams of study and Zen meditation dashed away, his resolve is strengthened. He grows resolute, and reaffirms his oaths to the Throne. He will use his powers one day for such liberating pursuits- God Emperor willing- but in the interim he will do what he was made for, and crush the foes so such a future might be possible, truth of the matter be damned, for Man, anything is possible, He will make it so. He will construct a chamber of scripture one day, he will sit in that chamber, and he will read and meditate upon philosophy, history, virtue, and the nature of the Emperor.

If he were to die in pursuit of such a goal? Well then, he will have to settle for asking the Emperor Himself when he reaches the steps to the Golden Throne.

Such a goal was Captain Evius' of the Seventh Brotherhood and it was one that had seen him far in the great halls of Titan. From rank-and-file Strike Brother, to Justicar and then terminator Justicar. Some say that he would better make a paladin, so long and venerable was Evius' history. Evius himself declined the call of the Paladin, Evius was no martial elite, and he could not lock blades with greater daemons one after another and emerge victorious like those of the Paladins ranks.

Evius was a strategist first and foremost- a lore monger who might have been a librarian had his psychic potential been but a fraction more potent. He took the mantle of Captaincy one hundred and thirty years prior when the honored Captain Darig fell in battle against the three-headed Daemon hound of Khorn. Corvan, the grand master of the seventh saw to it that Evius ascended to Captain. Evius took no pride in doing so, for once again Pride in ones self was a sin.

He pondered now, the nature of sin. He stood silently, his nemesis force sword clutched loosely in the grip of his right hand, the wrist mounted storm bolter on his left cycled through its pre battle routines, electronic systems calibrating and receiving the prayers bestowed upon it by the brotherhoods Techmarines, their pre-battle litanies still fresh in his mind, and their sacred unguents still glistening on the weapons surface. While his brothers stood silent with him in the Thunderhawks transport bay, they were muttering prayers and invocations of wrath and retribution, Evius was not.

Evius was searching himself, the thoughts of Sin and its nature whirling about his mind as he felt cold hands reach up from his gut and wrap around his mind.

Brother Captain Evius was uncertain.

He did not crush these hands of cold uncertainty like others would, for he knew that to crush an enemy without knowing its source- without know its nature, was to merely forestall its return in even greater numbers and strength.

He narrowed his mind to this one task, running through memory and knowledge alike to trace back the origin of such trepidation. All he could find was that same simple dual conclusion: That something wet and hard was festering in the pit of his stomach, something that would not yield to his immense will. A solid rock of forbidden emotion was taking rout in his mind and it would not disperse, that, and-

"Something troubles you, Captain?"

Inquisitor Lord Sheida roused him from his introspection, and he did feel his ire rise at this.

She wore a powered servo harness, layered with carapace plates. Even with it she only came up to his torso. Her voice gained the attention of several Terminator brothers, whoes helmed heads raised and glowered at the Inquisitor, electric blue lenses staring down at the human woman who would be so bold as to interrupt the sacred silence of deployment.

He regarded her with disdain. _"Nothing troubles me, Inquisitor."_ His steely voice and nature usually ended discussions with the mortals of the Inquisition before they could begin, but Sheida was made of sterner stuff- something he would admire in mortals, though in this inquisitor it was only irksome. She pressed on.

"You hold yourself and your arms with a clear tension in them, and you do not join in the rites of battle like your brothers." She almost sounded amused, as if this were a game for her. "Are you certain that you are not without anxiety?"

" _Captains of the brotherhood have their own invocations,"_ He spoke back, not bothering to meet her gaze. " _I am also in Terminator armor. To relax would initiate an armor lock."_ That was a lie, an armor lockout would only engage if the Astartes wearing such precious plate were to die and all information generating from their black carapace were to suddenly cease.

"Its more then that," Emperor damn her, she was relentless. "I am no Psyker, but still I can sense your unease."

 _"_ _I. Am. Fine."_ He bit out each word, his grip on his Force Sword tightening.

"See that it doesn't compromise your mission effectiveness." The comparatively short brunette reluctantly abated her attack, focusing her intensity instead onto her own wargear.

Lord Inquisitor Sheida Bruat of the Ordos Hereticus, a long serving individual of no more than one hundred and eighty three years of service had been a thorn in his side ever since the days opening upon the strike cruiser that carried them to this blighted world. The Inquisitor had not been part of the plans concerning the execution of the mission- one id not order a Grey Knight in the ways of battle- she had only made herself known when she announced that she intended to accompany them. It was somewhat understandable. She had been the one who had first come across it so many years ago, and she had been charged with the careful correlation of data- tracking it across the systems and worlds it left in its bloody wake. While it made sense that she would like to see her work come to fruition, Evius did not think to expect her to want to see its end personally while in range of whatever vile instrumentation it used for reaping. Once again, the mortals of the imperium surprised him with their audacity- or courage.

+ _She speaks truth, my Captain.+_ Ilitarus, the champion of the Seventh and sworn defender of the Sevenths captain. + _This silence about you is unknown to me.+_ Every Captain of the Grey Knights was seconded a Brother Champion in the interest of safeguarding the sacred and hard earned knowledge that a Captain possesses, for the Grey Knights were ever a small force that drew from a fickle pool to replenish their numbers.

Brother Champion Ilitarus, long friend of Evius, and a disciplined scion of the Nemesis Force Blade. While younger than Evius by a century of service, Evius had always respected the consummate skill of blade that Ilitarus possessed. While Evius was himself no slouch in martial tradition, he again preferred the aspect of the taciturn general to that of the striking bladesman. Together, he and Ilitarus were two separate halves made whole, and there was not a warp-spawned beast that could best them.

+ _This mission.+_ He relented. Hiding his soul from the inquisition was one thing, but he could not lie to his brothers, Ilitarus especially _. +It sits ill with me.+_

+ _You are not alone in your concern, for I as well stand with unease in my heart.+_

+ _You have been gifted with the Adepts reports and Pict steals?+_ Evius queried.

+ _An assortment of them,+_ Ilitarus muttered darkly. +' _It eats from death'.+_ Ilitarus quoted, a chilling message- the last words spoken from a far flung colony that suffered the ministrations of the Eater long before it arrived on Cor. _+What do you suppose that means?+_

+ _I cannot say, Brother. It could mean that it is like the vile Tyranids- that it sups upon the biological material of those it slays, or that it takes after the Dark Eldar and their glut of suffering.+_

 _+We must have faith, Captain, it will see us through.+_

+ _Faith alone will not see us through this day.+_ He felt bile rise in his throat as he spoke. Those words heathen to one such as him. + _Something dark, and insidious whispers to me so.+_

+ _Arms and skill,+_ Ilitarus intoned. + _Are the proof of faith.+_

Evius felt small comfort at this reasoning. _"Let none find them wanting."_ He spoke it aloud, for it was the truth, nothing less or more.

The Thunderhawks descended.

…

It had long been speculated upon which alter The Eater bowed its head to. Tzeentch and Khorne had always been the most obvious, though some whispered of Nurgle- the tattered armor and cloth spoke of an unkempt nature, and no one thought of the Hermaphrodite Queen- but it always returned to the Psyker and Berserker.

Relentless bloodshed followed wherever it went, but it did not match the brutality known to those of the Blood God. It appeared on random planets and stations, and left just as quickly, though it left no chaos in its wake- only corpses- no sign of ritual, something that no scion of Tzeentch seemed to be without.

In hushed whispers, they spoke of the Fifth and first scion of the Chaos Gods. The Black and the White, the White and the Black borne unto an unceasing Malice towards all things breathing.

It had been costly in tracking the fiend across the sectors, so it was that Sheida told them. It had been a trail of blood; cargo ships and freighters had been its transport, pirating its way between worlds by an unknown means. Slipping away at the last moment, the noose that the Inquisition had tied still thirsted for its neck, and every tightening had caught only wisps and whispers.

It was only recently discovered of how it transposed to new slaughter grounds: An ancient blade of twisted metal, shaped in a style more fit to ceremony than martial use, though the bloody stains would say different, the nicks and gouges along with a heat inside it that did not seem to ever grow cold.

Ships of little bearing would stumble over such a relic when they fled worlds that erupted into violence, mass slaughters prompting traders and long-haul ships to flee to fairer waters. They would find this blade and it would enchant them in such a way that they saw it to be a waste to be rid of such a unique artifact. They would stow it away in ignominy or cherish it in splendor; polishing its surface in an attempt to remove those troublesome stains and find that they could not.

They would go forth, unknowing of the doom they carried.

They had gambled much on what world it would appear on next, and the orbiting Strike Cruiser they had deployed from was waiting above one of the speculated worlds.

The lone spaceport on the surface of Cor had fallen silent.

The Inquisition and Grey Knights silently moved in.

…

It had overdone it this time, It thought to Itself. Too much for too little, not even enough to parch the driest of Empties.

It flicked the blade from idle habit; the blood slick flew off and spattered against the stained glass mural of some saint.

It felt a little disappointed; the PDF of this stupid rock had been less than a challenge, and their souls had barley slaked the driving thirst that was its existence. That core within It had only been partially sated, and It still hungered for more.

Nowhere near that driving ache that led to the soul-lust of hollowness, It had staved that off for the past few years, but It could feel it, always there, always hungry and eager to take what sanity It had left and slaughter without care.

It couldn't afford to be careless. It had done so in the past, and had drawn the eyes of hunters.

Something like humility came over It as It approached the meager bonfire. The Ark Blade as it had come to know that refined spike of metal that glowed with the twin flames dancing gently across its surface and up past the haft and hilt. It offered the fire some of Its bounty. It did not know if it knew, cared or needed them, but It felt Right. It could remember the days before, scant glimpses of recollection while lost in the madness of Hollowness. The fire that consumed Anor Londo, the fire from the sky after the crimson beasts, the reawakenin g upon a ship that sailed through the stars, the slaughter of everything upon that ship and the long wait and descent into madness once more. The ensuing slaughters before it had finally reclaimed sanity, and the hunger was abated for the time being.

Immortality, or whatever perverted version of it, It lived in, was indeed a tiresome thing.

It was bored now, those lengthy intervals between the pure quintessence of combat and the monotony of waiting.

It wouldn't be to long this time, hopefully. Although a minor outpost of miners and cog-men it was still regularly in contact with the greater expanse of star-worlds. The ships would arrive soon, they would count the slaughtered and It would hide The Arc, the bonfire blade. Stow it amongst them and wait even longer. Sometimes It would disguise itself, lurk onboard the vast Ships.

Not always though, sometimes It grew impatient, the Hunger reasserted itself and It threw Itself at the sailor-men and living-corpse and cog-men. A dead ship was the result of these embarkations more often then not. Sometimes these ships were not salvaged for several months. It spent these months in madness, and had to claw its shattered mind back into reality before It slaughtered the next crew.

It would wait for the Beacon to illuminate at its next destination, and there it would re-awaken. And there it would harvest Souls.

For now It would wait, It would tend to Its armor, Its blades and Itself.

…

Evius descended the ramp first, and thus was the first to feel the harsh winds upon his plate, the grit and dirt the hellish wind carried with it spackled against ceramite and adamantium to little affect. He took in the bleak visage offered to him without preamble, the storm lashed surface of Cor was barren and eroded into sloping crags that filtered the rainwater into extensive underground caverns that terminated at the single vast ocean along the northern hemisphere. Dotted in clusters at its southern most point -the only inhabitable portion of Cor- were the various habitations domes and hive cities surrounding the single spaceport the Knights were now arriving at.

Cor was a dismal mining rock, veins of semi-precious ore and dull metals were tapped and extracted in exchange for the means of living and an exemption to the Imperial Guard Tithe. It was no surprise the Inquisition went to great pains to corral the beast here, comparatively few carcasses would line the halls when the Beast struck.

The dreary lighting wrapped clouds ahead heralded their advance across the landing pad. Evius tallied his forces once more: Ten Strike Marines, ten Interceptors and five terminators, all-working in conjunction with each other.

"Brother Tiavan, Brother Adaphal." He nodded, his voice echoing across the vox link as he called up the Justicars of the respective squads. He turned to face the two long serving brothers, he towered over both of them in his terminator plate, their own Aegis power armor of a smaller bulk, but for good reason.

Brother Tiavan of the Interceptors, and Brother Adaphal of the Strike Marines, both Justicars of the Seventh with much honor to their names. He greeted them as he would an equal, fist slamming against his chestplate with a thunderous clap, and they greeted him likewise.

 _"_ _Squad Firewasp is primed for deployment, Brother Captain."_ Adaphal spoke, " _We await your command."_ Tiavan nodded likewise.

 _"_ _We shall begin at once, you are familiar your orders?"_ Evius asked, behind him Ilitarus made doubly sure of the preparedness of the squads, going over each and every battle-brother with a scrupulous eye for detail. As always, he found nothing out of place.

Both Tiavan and Adaphal nodded, needing no reminder for their memory was that of a Space-Marines, but he asked regardless- ever careful.

" _Go then, to your squads with the Emperors blessing."_ Evius commanded.

It was a simple plan, one that tried and tested before on countless worlds, perfect for finding and efficiently dispatching a Daemonhost or rouge psyker. Three squads: the Hunters, formed of Interceptors- would seek out the target; drive it from cover and into the chosen hunting grounds.

The Hammer, formed of Strike Marines who would block off every possible exit with runic wards and sealed passages, would secure the grounds. This would force the prey to fall ever deeper into the trap, now being pursued by both the Hammer and Hunters.

They would drive it into the face of the Anvil, the mighty Terminators; there it would be crushed without fail between three forces at once.

Evius could not help but think it would not be enough.

 _"_ _The Emperor Protects, brothers."_ He slammed his own fist to his plate once more, miming his words and actions they returned to their squads, relaying their orders and departing at once.

The interceptors simply stepped forwards into a blink in reality, the cold snap of teleportation signaling their displacement. With more mundane methods the Strike marines repeated the rites of activation upon the massive blast doors of the facility, the ancient weatherworn partitions groaning in the task of activation.

The leviathan constructs were made for the purpose of admitting the giant tracked ore haulers that traveled back and forth over barren wasteland to the distant mining outposts scattered about the wastes. They opened slowly, but such vital constructs were well maintained in the interest of the continued well running of the spaceport, open, they did.

Evius went over his wargear one last time, runes blinking across his helms display as he sent probing pulses to each and every servo and system through the link his Black Carapace allowed him.

He stared into the black hell they were to descend. He felt that cold uncertainty well up within him, and he did not need introspection to know its origin this time.

It was a surprise when the Inquisitor sidled up next to him, arming her own power sword and hell-pistol with a seemingly carless serenity. A sabbat pattern helm with gold and red filigree covered her normally benign face, turning it sinister with the glowing red lenses and snarling flared grill rendered into the aspect of a capricious smile.

He had nearly forgotten about her, nearly. His frustrations rekindled with the task of having to watch over a Mortal human during such an intangible mission, where the outcome was occluded to them through inexperience and the nature of the true first encounter with an unknown entity.

…

It rose from a sitting position, the bloodied corridor it sat in, admiring the twisting flames of the Bonfire. It had felt the rumble of those great doors, opening, and it could now feel the echo of Others. It had been quick. The ships have arrived. It reached one hand into the heatless fire, pulling the blade from the remains of bones gathered from the corpses to intact the ritual of ignition. It idly wondered what had changed- what had made it independent of the Keepers, this bonfire.

It wasn't at all displeased with this new development, for it allowed it to hunt once more. It pondered where it should stow the blade, where it shall leave it to be gathered later by the 'rescuers' and undoubtedly wind up adorning a posh nobles room in some distant cityscape.

It hoped it was a Vast city, its next hunt, for those could feed its hunger for centuries before it grew bored and changed haunts once more.

It was lucky, this hunt had been meager, but quick, very quick in its turnover.

Quick.

Too quick.

It halted in its step, interrogating itself, a shrewd analytical presence in its head warning it of coming danger. It was this sense that had always warned it of exposure to the vast kingdom it now preyed upon.

It had been too careless, hadn't it?

A silent sigh escaped its helm; it stalked backwards deeper into the complex. The sound of perusal reaching after it scant seconds later.

Somehow it knew it would come down to this, a frontal engagement with whatever shadowy forces searched for it, be it on battlefields or backstreet sumps, it always could tell that something had been watching, waiting, calculating.

They had it here, in this pathetic metal building with barely over a thousand souls to slake its thirst and staunch its hunger, such a meager rationing and such a quick response was sign of its pursuers having now charmed to its games and now snapping at its heels.

It would not go quietly, if at all. It did not matter how many they sent its way, it would slay them all and grow fat off their souls. If it were lucky, they would overstep themselves and it might be able to stow away on one of their transports, or at least make it so its Ark was at least.

Either way, it would end in crimson, as all things did.

It stalked down the hallways, searching for better dueling pits than this pathetic hallway.

…

The Grey Knights stalked down the butchered halls of Cor Station, their augmented senses straining to catch even the slightest hint of another's presence. Their preternatural senses, their psionic powers, stretched outwards and felt for the tingling of something… 'Else'.

It was strange, the slaughter they found themselves striding through. It was most unlike the normal sights that plagued the Daemon hunters, the blood soaked hallways and rooms. Where the minions of chaos were grotesque and grisly in their killing, this 'Eater' was surgical, almost orderly in its harvest.

There was no extravagant disembowelment or ritual decapitation, every body they chanced upon was similar in its how it was killed- at most there were three or four wounds, but more often then not, it was a single precise killing stroke through the heart, neck, or brain.

The Strike Marines had time to ruminate on this as they made their way through the complex. The Eater was fast, that much was certain. Fast and silent. The paltry security force had been taken unaware, and dispatched with lethal precision.

Tiavan knelt beside a pile of ash and bone, the first sign of something 'Else' he had encountered besides the corpses. Human bones stacked upon each other and turned to ash from a fire. The ashes were cold, but the bones still hardy. The ash and bones reeked of power- not warp-power though; there was a power here that was separate from the Immaterium. He didn't understand.

 _+What are your findings, Justicar?+_ Adaphas' voice came to him over the Vox, and he brought a hand up to his helm to respond. +Nothing yet, Brother, but we draw closer, I can feel its presence.+

+ _Acknowledged. Tread with caution.+_

" _Squad, to me."_ He motioned his Interceptors forwards, though not in the traditional sense. Focusing his powers on the jump pack he wore, he felt the Mateirium tear apart before him and he _stepped_ forwards, but in one step he traveled many and was not beholden to up, down, left, right, backwards, or forwards. He moved in an entirely different fashion. He felt the shielded souls of his brothers beside him as he translated into the warp, his mind shielded from the horrors that inhabited it through faith and armor. His wards blazed bright, and the light they exuded forced back the shadows. He _pulsed_ once more and another rift opened- a portal into reality that he alone held open for himself, lest the beasts of the warp try to slip through as well.

With a crack of displaced air he reemerged, his brothers close behind. Normally, teleporting indoors was a dangerous and seldom practiced art; the risks of translating into reality inside a wall or bulkhead were too great. A Grey Knight was not beholden to the normal methods of teleportation though, their portable warp-jump packs were examples of the lost archeotech available to the 666th chapter, and their psychic nature allowed them far better control over these short ranged localized jumps. Faulty reentries were almost unheard of.

There was also the curious stillness in the warp around this place, the normal turmoil that came with jumping was absent, the flows and ebbs of the sea-of-souls were almost placid.

It was unsettling, this calmness. It was not calm out of serenity, but out of fear. Fear of what may happen if it were to draw the attention of some great predator.

Tiavan shoved aside these thoughts, and spread his mental web to encompass the surrounding area, searching for anomalies that his Auspex could not catch.

He was close, far closer than any other, but it was still distant, just beyond the range of his psychic senses. A bleak spot amidst the hues of the warp that ran over reality. He still could not fully make out its location, the nature of this beast, whatever it was they were pursuing, obscured the elements of its surroundings, blurred them to his psychic senses much like a blank.

Rending apart reality again, he stepped through and into another room, tethering two points in space together with but his will alone. He spread his senses once more and- there! Fully within his minds eyes and all the more painful because of it.

 _"_ _Hammer, this is Hunter Squad. We have the beast. How goes your progress?"_

 _+We are prepared, all bulkheads are sanctified and any passageways are made bane to those of the Warp. Anvil is in position in the southern hanger.+_

+Acknowledged. Inform Anvil that we are engaging.+ Tiavan drew his twin nemesis falchions, with but a thought he sent a quickening of the warp up the twinned blades, and their surface reflected the pure light of his soul.

" _Brothers!"_ He called to his squad. " _To battle!"_

…

It liked the Green monstrosities, though they were not Its' favorite, not by far. They provided a challenge, It found, not in the way the Beetle-Men did, but in the fact that there were always _so many_. It would strike one down, only for another to take its place, and their enthusiasm did them credit, it was not fun to slay an opponent who did not feel the vigor that combat bestowed. The purity of fighting such beasts was always refreshing, though their souls lacked in substance.

The Lithe ones, the ornate beings who danced just as much as they fought were among Its favorite, though not in the way of the pray that courted Its deadly affections. They did not fight well- not in comparison to other prey, where the Beetle men harnessed both skill, speed, endurance and strength, these Bone-armored beings crumpled with the slightest tap. They broke easily; it was like hunting dreglings and flesh-puppets. They were fast, yes, but that did them no favors. Their weapons cut deep, yes, but pain had no hold over It. Why did it favor them? It favored them for their stones. The first bout against these bone-clad warriors disappointed It, for it thought them free of souls, until it chanced upon a red stone gem.

It was greatly pleased with what it found inside.

It could go centuries by feeding off these stones, and what was even better, was in how these Bone-warriors always seemed so _fanatical_ , so _hell-bent_ on retrieving them. It had feasted well on that world before it was forced to leave.

The Skeleton things.

It did not enjoy those fiends at all.

It had died twenty-eight times to those emotionless monstrosities, each death was agony- Its soul being torn out and atomized before it found itself crawling from the Bonefire pit a shuddering, starving wreck. That world is gone now, and it was all the more grateful to the Human prey for their star-fire weapons. This kingdom of the heavens is better off without the Skeleton Wraiths of that world.

The Bugs were a nuisance. A nuisance It did not bother itself with, at every chance it avoided those plagues. It made sure to track down their seeker cults, the half-breed things; they had many on almost every city it found itself upon.

It did not enjoy slaughtering these 'cults' as It called them. The multi-limbed beasts that skulked within them were hellishly fast, and fearless. They did not relent and it could count many deaths to these fiends, it found that it took at least five rebirths to fully eradicate them.

The Blue folk with the weapons that shot far and precisely were boring and soulless. They broke ranks the moment It made itself known amongst their lines, and they wilted easily, It did not waste time with them, not when there were richer fields to reap.

The Beetle Men.

The armored giants, now those were a true challenge. Fast, durable, skilled, and relentless. Its first taste of this kingdom in the stars was of the Beetle Men. They gave challenge where it had long found none, and their souls were rich and succulent. These were not its favorites either.

The shadow things. The skulking beasts that capered about behind the veil. They were Its favorite. Rich, deep, aged souls that screamed as It drew them from the shell that hosted them. They were like nectar. They were not easy to find, and even less to steal. The Beasts fought tenaciously when it stalked them, and they fought only when it could corner them- which was rare indeed. They would scamper away, howling as it chased them through dread caverns and halls, relentless in Its pursuit, but they would almost always slink back into the realm of madness that It so desperately desired access too.

One day it would find their home, and on that day It would _feast._

It wasn't used to being chased, and behind it, it could hear the sounds of pursuit. Beetle-Men. It could tell by the tramping footfalls, the vibrations through the floor that foretold of heavily armored opponents. They had come from before it, when mere moments earlier it was sure that they were chasing it from behind. It paid no heed to this sudden change, there were many things about this new Kingdom-in-the-stars that It did not understand.

Standard practice for It when fighting against Beetle-Men was to draw them into cramped confines, places where It could make use of Its lithe frame. Open areas were right out, such places spelled death for It. They were damnably quick shots with their cannons, and like much of this kingdom their guns did not leave small easily healed wounds but gaping craters of gore. If it could draw them into close combat, things would go much more smoothly.

It vaulted over an overturned box that contained various fluids, recalling this as one of the few places that put up resistance upon its arrival. That meant the room filled with shelves and stacked drawers is near, it would fight there.

It had been down this passage before, though it had been altered, recently- the difference in design being there had been no calligraphy and not as many candles before. The icons and devotional seals that bordered its desired door were strange but this was a strange realm. It drew its blade and with little effort hacked the golden gilt chain that barred its way. It leapt over the candles, which flickered out and died as it passed overhead.

…

 _"_ _What do you mean it broke the ward."_ Evius was patient, it was a quality that was desired of most captains. It allowed him to think even in the midst of battle, it allowed him to hold true to his teachings even as hellfire scoured his armor. It allowed him reason when set truths began to dissolve and fade. It was what allowed him to maintain composure when Tiavan voxed him, and informed him that the Prey slipped the cordon.

 _+I know not what to say, captain. We were in pursuit, driving it towards Hammer when it broke off from the main hallway and towards the storerooms. We adjusted accordingly so it could not double back, but it did not. It broke for one of the Wards and slipped through.+_

 _"_ _Did it go through the walls? Were the Wards incorrectly set?"_

+ _Nay, my lord.+_ Adaphal spoke through the vox. _+I set the eastern wards myself, there is no flaw in their design.+_

 _"_ _These Wards, they hold against the Daemonic and Psychic, yes?"_ It was Sheida who spoke next, her voice echoing over the Vox before Evius could respond.

Tiavan and Adaphal paused, not accustomed to Inquisitors with such audacity, but they answered regardless. + _Aye, they are proof against all that mingle with the Warp._ +

" _If we are to assume then that there was no flaw with the Wards, we can only be lead to believe that this creature is not of the Warp."_

 _+That cannot be so, I sense its presence.+_ Tiavan snapped.

 _"_ _What is its current location?"_ Evius asked.

+ _Milling around within the storerooms, Captain,+_ Tiavan answered. _+Your orders?+_

 _"_ _Wait for Hammer to circle 'round to the rear entrance. It cannot be allowed to escape. Once they have done so, strike and engage. We shall be with you shortly."_ A moments hesitation occurred to Evius, and he voxed again. " _Ilitarus_ ,"

+ _Yes captain?+_

 _"_ _Go with Hammer, lend them your strength."_

+ _At once, my captain.+_

 _+I shall join them, I can see this is where things grow interesting…+_ The Inquisitor tittered, something that sounded both alien and at home for her. He did not move to stop her.

" _Brothers,"_ Evius turned to his terminators. _"With me."_

…

They were outside, waiting. It tested the grip on its blade, the gilded steel imbued with ancient magiks of lost Astora. It did not know why they waited, it was much more used to their fiery charges. Perhaps they were scared?

No, no. Hogwash, that. It knew better. The Beetle-Men are warriors. Fear was something that lesser things such as the Blue waifs and Bone-armored wenches suffered from. The Beetle men stood shoulder to shoulder with the Green Beasts and the metal boned Skeletons now of a dead world. Fear was a tool they did not utilize.

If that was the case, then why did they hesitate?

It studied its surroundings, high-stacked shelves, crates and cartons reaching up to the distant ceiling. While below countless boxes and drawers filled with files and metal slates littered the ground alongside desks and chairs. It had made sure to erect the Bonfire blade deep within this mess, gathering long bones from a pouch at its hip, it made sure to pick the last bits of gristle from these. An outstretched hand and whispered chant called forth the twin flames, but it made sure to erect this temple of fire away from where the fighting will naturally take place, It did not expect to get through this ordeal without a number of deaths.

It grew tired of waiting, this non-combat was growing irksome and it was not keen to let whatever machinations they had in store grow to fruition. They had already trapped It on this dismal rock of little souls, and now they were to deny It the sweet ecstasy of combat?

It would see to it that such was not the case. To sit and wait while an enemy stirred, an enemy with a _soul_ , was not in its nature.

The metal of the doors was little obstacle to it, its bulk smashed through, the arcing silver of its shortsword cutting through the air with sublime ease, and the edge met the armor of its foes.

For eons past memory it has honed its craft, mastered the way of martial combat in both waking and in madness. It has crept through the Spires of Lordran, the muck of Anor Londo, the sewer towns of New Londo, and it has mastered the Fortress of Sen and the crypt-catacombs of below.

When its bloodlust could no longer be contained, It spread to the stars above, and mastered those distant realms as well. All along this path It harvests, stolen power courses through its veins, Its body honed by practice and reinforced by pilfered souls. Its muscles, though lithe and narrow in comparison to the devils, demigods, and demagogues it fights- are blessed with speed and strength unthinkable, Its skin is like the hide of a gargoyle brute, and Its mind rivals that of an Ancient Dragon. Its armaments are forged of the stones of origin; titanite slabs carved into the metal of its blades and armor, blessed with archaic enchantments of the first Soul-eaters and the brides of the lords- primordial Chaos.

It landed amongst silver giants tinged with red and gold ornamentation. Its analytical mind counted ten, one stood above the others, a slight variation in its armor- a hung cloth of red around it waist. It singled him out first.

It moved with casual grace, cut with perfect lethality, killed with the ease gifted only to those who have spent several eternities honing their trade. The weapon in its hands was no mere extension of its body- something so intimate was beyond its state of mind, the Blade of Astora was an architect, crafting a carpet of sacrifices for it to lay upon.

Its shield was omnipotent; it deflected- never intercepted. It could not face such titan strength head on and not falter. It knocked aside blows that could have cleaved vast forests and sundered towers. It paid little attention to those it slaughtered on its bloodied travels throughout the solar kingdom. It recognized only the distinctive shapes of its prey, never their heraldry or names- but almost at once it could see a difference, and these were not of the Beetle-Men it had encountered in previous engagements.

It knew of the typical ways of the Beetle-Men, there were those who soared on fire-wings, made for close combat with growling or sparking weapons, those of the line- handheld cannons spitting death at range, and those of even greater ranged carnage with truly massive weapons that spat torrents of light, flame, and automatic cannonry. There were also the leaders, those both mystic and mighty, It knew better than to close with such skilled individuals, experience in the past had told it as much.

It faced none of these, now. These Beetles were faster, agile, they held twinned weapons about the length of its own blade that struggled to block three Beetle Men at once, their sparking falchions driving past its guard to score gouges in its own armor, the Beetle had overextended and It struck back with lethal precision, blade targeting the less armored neck- to its Satisfaction it felt the life drain from the Knight as it drew back to parry a vengeful counter by another of its compatriots, and their strength became Its Own. Four have fallen. Six remained.

It had managed to cut the cord that bound two of them to the realm of the living in its initial attack, a decapitation and lunging thrust through the lenses of another saw to that, even though a phenomenal surge of souls now flooded its system, that new power counted for little if It was going to simply lose them again.

They pressed in, closing around It, battle cries rolling through thundering helms, they could sense Its weakness- they were prideful, the Beetle-men.

Honor.

It remembered what that was, the knowledge of being the Apex, and the strongest among others. How one must keep that title.

It broke from combat, ducking under a swing that almost took off its own head in return for what it did to its Comrade. It used its small size to Its advantage lunging and rolling between the legs of one of the Beetles, coming up to a half crouch behind it. It gambled now, and leveled Its ruby stained blade at what could only be the leader among them.

…

Saying otherwise would be a sign of weakness. To overlook their failings and place it upon the enemy would be dishonor to those who had fallen. So it is without hesitation that Tiavan admits that they had been caught off-guard. The sudden movement of the enemy, the speed in which it burst through the doors and struck down two of his Brothers could have been avoided if they had only realized that they had been the ones to be lured into a trap.

They closed with all the speed granted to the Interceptors of the Grey Knights, twin Falchions lighting up the dimly lit hallway with the blazing power of a Grey Knights soul manifested in martial form.

His brothers encircled the Beast, trapping it in an arena of blades, each brother draw its focus and from behind did another strike, attacking from every angle. Impossibly, it anticipated these movements, and ducked, dodged and deflected each strike, thrusting back with a blow of its own as if offended by their perseverance. It was not invulnerable though, it was slowly accumulating a collection of wounds, and the blazing channels of warp power that stemmed from their blades leaving smoldering cuts in its archaic plate.

It was undoubtedly humanoid, and it mocked them, wearing an archaic suit of Knightly armor and bearing both shield and sword. Though unlike the Grey Knights, this thing was no holy warrior but a warp- No.

No, that wasn't right. This being was not of the warp that much was clear to Tiavan now. The aura it exuded, it dulled their Psychic powers much like a Blank would but it did not occlude them. It was something else.

Tiavan was caught off guard again by the things speed and agility, it lurched forwards, curling into a roll beneath one of his brothers and coming up behind, skating back a few feet for distance and-

It challenged him.

Its murderers blade rose to _him._ Singling him out amongst his brothers.

Tiavan could not refuse.

No one could have.

He accepted this challenge, the petulant thing before him was warp-spawn, spawn unlike anything he has ever encountered but it was still of the dread realm of chaos, and his presence was that of which the darkness shied away from, hissing and cursing all the while.

He ordered his brothers back, and a ring of ceramite formed around the chosen combatants. He would banish this creature.

He would not fail.

…

Dark passageways long fallen into disuse made for their travels, Ilitarus leading the procession with Sheida at his side, the assembled Strike Brothers behind him, Halberds and Storm Bolters at the ready.

The stampeded down the emptied and blood slicked halls, Sheida managing to keep pace only because of her servo assisted power armor, and even then she struggled to maintain pace with the superhuman Astartes. " _What is the cause for rush? Has it engaged?"_ She managed to ask over the storm of boots on metal. " _Aye_." Adaphal grunted back to her.

 _"_ _How do they fare?"_ She asked.

" _Poorly_." He replied, increasing his pace and charging ahead, Hands gripped tight around the base of his crackling Nemesis blade.

 _"_ _Around this corner_." He said aloud, making the turn before everyone else. Sheida sprinted around the bend and raised an eyebrow at the destruction present. Unlike the clean kills of the former bends, this hallway was a mess of shredded walls and spilled guts. She looked closer and saw the desecrated remains of boiler pipes, ruptured by some cataclysmic force that sent the heaters into overload, causing the sections to burst. The pipes snaked under the floor and up the wall, their pulled metal frames not even yet rusted, a faint vapor wafted through the air.

Ilitarus charged onwards heedlessly as Sheida's eyes traced the pipes under the floor, and came to a startling conclusion.

 _"_ _Ilitarus! Wait- Hold!"_ She shouted allowed, dashing forwards. To his credit, Ilitarus slowed, casting a glance back over his pauldron as he stepped forwards- and his foot continued on through the metal grating of the floor, steel squealing under duress as his armored bulk punched through metal pushed past its limits.

His leg fell through, and he reached out, grabbing at the deck plating only for those sections to fold and break as well. " _Brother!"_ One of the strike marines shouted and lunged forwards, twirling his halberd around so the long haft pointed outwards. Yet, as he ran forwards he found the deck around his feet crumbling like wet sand under his weight. He staggered backwards, just avoiding falling into the same pit as the Champion.

" _Stay back!"_ Ilitarus shouted, his Nemesis blade lodged firmly in one of the pipes snaking under the floor, which had opened up beneath him to become a yawning maw leading directly into the gullet of the rot beneath the ancient port. " _This hallways is compromised,"_ He shifted a dubious look back towards the broken pipes. _"The chemical leakage, it's eating away at the plating."_ The insane sharpness of his blade combined with the weight he and his armor possessed slowly began to work against the purchase he found in the rusting pipe that he used as an anchor, a grinding rent began to work its way through the pipe, inch by inch it drew closer to cutting its way through.

" _Find another way around!"_ Ilitarus shouted up to them, each marine clustering as closely as they could to the edge of the pit without falling in themselves. " _It's a mere one hundred-ninety meter drop into the waste tanks,"_ He grunted _. " I'll find my way out from there. Just like back on Grudan-Four in the nurgling pits."_ The Knights, to the last, hesitated, uneasy in leaving their Champion brother to his fate.

" _That's an order! Go! Avenge Tiavan and our fallen brothers!"_ Ilitarus shouted- and with a heave, yanked free his blade, and fell from their sight.

…

" _Ilitarus has fallen."_

" _What!"_

" _Aye, part of the floor in the Primary hallways leading to the storerooms has come into contact with an acidic compound. It has reduced the integrity of the walkway to where Ilitarus had fallen through the floor and into the sublevels below this facility. He will be unable to assist in the Strike Forces assault."_

" _I see,"_ Evius turned away from the Terminator who had just relayed the somewhat startling news. But such was His fault for removing his helmet, he donned it now, the tactica display flickering to life before him as it synched with his black carapace. " _Hammer, report."_

+ _Nearing the target now, Captain.+_ It was Sheida who replied; apparently Adaphal saw fit to include the inquisitor in their Vox channels. A smart move, one that Evius should have made early on. + _We have lost all contact with Justicar Tiavan,_ Adaphal _says that their vitals…+_ She trailed off, showing tact, for once.

 _"_ _I understand, Inquisitor."_ Evius gravely replied. _"Follow Adaphal commands. If it has slain ten Brothers already, there is no telling what powers it may wield, we are charged with your protection, but the termination of this fiend has priority over any of our lives."_

 _+My thoughts exactly, Captain.+_

…

It fingered the grisly cut along its side, the rent in the armor still gouging into the flesh beneath. It didn't wince at the biting pain, feeling had already gone out of most of the wound the moment the Leader among the Beetle Men had landed that blow, and the searing heat from the energy wreathed blade surged through it. If it had not been for that lucky return strike which decapitated the Leader Beetle it would have died there and have been forced to submit to the madness of Empty.

It was already healing, though, the proximity to the bonfire had made sure of that. Repairing the armor would be difficult though, much of its sacred gold dust was gone repairs had become patchwork jobs instead of full restoral. Armor could be patched well enough anyways, it saved the magical dust for its weapons, the only truly irreplaceable items it possessed.

It sat on one of the may scattered desks about the shelves and cabinets, staring aimlessly into the flames of the Bonfire, the twin lashes of fire circling up the blade of the strange sword that carried the power of immortality and rebirth.

It was not prepared, in this lost state of mind, for the opposite doors to the storeroom to burst open in a shattered explosion of wood and shrapnel.

More of them-

It was rocked off its perch as an explosion pounded into its chestplate, and knocked it backwards, a conflagration of flame and metal scouring its front shredding the trappings that covered its chest piece. It was dazed, a few moments of critical time lost in astonishment- that soon turned to rage as it drew the blooded short-sword of Astora, and the familiar crest shield made its weight known on its arm.

It had been caught off guard- once. It would not repeat that mistake. It would hunt this place until the last silver beetle had been crushed and bled dry of its soul.

These ones were different; it noticed that at once as it leapt from behind the desk that had sheltered it unwittingly as it recovered. It ran behind a stack of shelves filled with boxes of useless parchment sheets with scribbled writings on them. All around it- far too close for comfort- explosions rocked these shelves back and scattered their contents, the had those damned bomb-slinging cannons with them, but the sheer volume of fire these put out was more on par with those large heavier mounted ones that used the backpacks, yet it saw none of those present among the gleaming silver beetles.

It jumped back and rolled behind a stack of crates along the edge of the storeroom, a volley of shots slammed into the wall and dented it considerably, but not enough to break through the thick steel. Almost at once its cover was pelted with concentrated fire, and within seconds the flimsy crates were shredded, but by then it was already moving, skipping in-between the shelves, jerking aside and raising the crest shield at an angle to deflect a particularly well aimed round that would have taken its head off had it been a moment slower.

It changed glances whenever it could at its prey, the muzzle flashes from those boxy barreled tings upon their wrists- It would have hit itself had it had the chance, it remembered those same devices from the prey from earlier, they too had them- they were the sources of the constant deluge of rounds. The others must have not have gotten the chance to use it when it closed with them so quickly and from ambush.

It was suffering for its mistake now- it had to rectify this situation; it had to get close, out from under those blasted cannonades of fire. It couldn't flank them, they were eleven of them- though one was markedly smaller- different. They had spread out once they had all entered, corner to corner, backs against he wall, bracketing the room before them with fire. It couldn't go under them, that was obvious, nor over them. It couldn't turn its back to them and flee deeper into the storeroom, it didn't know if the prey had more silver beetles waiting behind it to ambush it like they tried to do before.

So it charged directly at them.

It broke cover from behind the last unmolested metal desk, raised its shield, and stormed forwards.

It was as if angry gods were casting lightning bolts upon it, the Crested shield bucked in its hands with every explosive punch, it could hear the metal bend and buckle under the impacts, and the floor around it was torn up as more of those flying bombs burst about its feet, more then several hit its legs, but he armor upon them saved them from amputation, although the plates were blown off in return- And then it was among them.

The first glittering halberd arced through the air and it met its head with its sword, the twin blades sparked on contact, electric blue and mystic white vying for supremacy. It didn't try to match strength- it didn't have the endurance to do so, though it was fairly certain that with enough of a burst of power it could overwhelm one momentarily- it let the attack break through against its Short sword and then overextend to where it now stood inside its guard- it was faster then them, and it reversed the grip on its blade, driving it into the chest plate of its first kill of this new batch.

The first slain among many is always the sweetest among them. It could feel the despair rise amongst the others, the rage and bloody-minded vengeance.

Those feelings only grew as it darted behind the second, driving the blade through the skull as it grabbed it by the backpack and vaulted over to reach the third that fell when it slid the Blade of Astora through the lens of its helmet and ducked under the now lifeless corpse to cover from the hacking blade of the fourth kill, this one it spun away from, parrying the blow sent by the fifth- it would die later- and used the momentum to smash the short sword through the haft of the Halberd used by the fourth, sparking and crackling the Halberd was rent in twain, and the gap left exposed was all It needed to drive its blade into the weaker armor just above the belt, into the spine hidden behind so many guts.

Yanking the blade free it swung out and caught the Fifths Halberd mid-swing and was forced to take a step back over the fourth dying Beetle-man from the sheer strength behind the blow. It was prepared for the next strike, almost moving in slow motion for It, now that the battle lust was up and pulsing through its veins. Lunging forwards- always attacking, defending was only for those who lacked the courage to commit to the kill- it drove its bloodied spike of steel through the Fifth kills arm and twisted, wrenching the limb free from its owner and stepping off its other arm, driving the Halberd down, out of the fight. It lopped off its head easily enough, enchanted steel making a mockery of their armor.

The Sixth had the audacity to shout a battle cry as it attacked, charging forwards, Wrist cannon thudding off bombs that shattered against its shield. Cracks were beginning to form; it wondered how many more attacks like this it could take. It pondered this even as it parried its Halberd and drove its short sword through its hearts- twice; these Beetles never seemed to die to one piercing, and it appreciated this tenacity as it killed the seventh almost dismissively. It was fully immersed in the bloodshed now, an almost savant like shroud falling over its eyes- showing it every single movement of the enemy before it was even made, every question that this combat postulated It had the answers to, nothing was beyond its crazed savagery.

Eleven, then ten, then nine and eight- seven, six, five- no, four- were all that were left.

It would have laughed if it were able. It had gotten ahead of itself again and broke all its toys before it could enjoy them properly.

…

Lord Inquisitor Sheida of the Ordos Malleus had been of service for nearly one hundred and thirty years. Her record of honor is not as extensive as those of her more celebrated comrades; some would even say that her auspicious ascension to the rank of _lord_ inquisitor was misguided- though never in her immediate presence.

It has merit, these arguments. Sheida does not strike a particularly intimidating posture; she does not command the respect that those of the Malleus would normally be so quick to flaunt about. She does not rely on fear and intimidation alone, though Sheida knows that to become an object of fear is to be dominant, she also knows that it is to be reviled.

Mankind rightly fears what it does not understand. To understand the darker things in this galaxy is to break bread with them, and in that one becomes an instrument of that enigmatic horror. Such is the path to radicalism, and the Malleus already walks that razors edge, staring into the immaterium with hostile intent. No matter how gilded a fortress the Malleus girds its soul with, it is but a mortal fortress, and the dark powers of the Warp have proven that not even the Divine Sons of the Emperor are wholly proof against their corruptions.

So it is with restraint that she uses Fear as her weapon of choice. An offered hand is a better goad then the lash, she has found- though less immediate- does not come with the repercussions that the rich and powerful are often rife with when pushed to ire. She is willing to overlook the small heresies, something taught to her by the Ordos Xenos in the rare dealings that those two branches of the inquisition share, to let slide the smaller quarry in favor of the larger that follows. In doing so you garner the thanks of many, and there service in future exploits may one day prove invaluable. Perhaps it is this favor that landed her here, in a blood slicked storage room alongside the Grey Knights that her and her order share so tenuous a relationship with. Maybe her goodwill in letting them act of their own accord in the matters concerning this grand beast they now fight- and die to- was misguided for it no puts her in the position of watching what she once though to be a cornered foul turn, and grin with a maw of razor teeth.

Perhaps if she had been more forceful this would not have happened, perhaps if she had insisted on a larger detachment of Knights instead of the now obviously paltry force that they had assured would be enough, they would have barred her from joining this mission in a small act of spite towards the lowly mortal that had dared to order an Astartes. She wouldn't have done so; she was to knowing of her own faults to do so. She was a Lord Inquisitor, yes, but she was only that. The Grey Knights were raised and trained from their induction to be ward against the Daemon and its corrupting forces, and in their purity they knew secrets that not even she knew. If they stated that what they had been given was enough to squash a threat, _then_ _it was enough._

Perhaps, after this day was done, and the victor walks free, they would learn that a bit of exaggerated Paranoia is not necessarily an unhealthy thing. Sheida increasingly doubted that they would be the ones who walked free. She allowed herself this doubt for a moment before locking it away.

Power sword raised, and servoharness humming. Sweat beads her low and she licks her lips beneath her helmet. Feeling trapped rather then protected, she has seen how easily that blade carves through armor. Tears it to shreds and spits out corpses. What matter was her plate if it did nothing but can her like ration cartons served to guardsmen?

It stood before them, tensed, still, and surrounded by the corpses of Knights both dead and soon to be dead lying amidst its feet.

Sheida would freely admit to feeling fear leaking into her heart at that moment. They were looking at an Apex killer. Not a monster, not a Daemon or Alien abomination, but a purebred predator.

This was a thing that existed only to kill and feed. It was like the Tyranids, but unlike those monsters from beyond the edge of the galaxy, this beast was no pawn. It was not a token to be thrown about the galactic table they played on. It was its own purpose, it was its own drive, and for that it was all the more terrible. It paid heed to nothing; it was its own sponsor. It killed because it liked to.

This beast knew what it was, and relished in that knowledge. It stared them down despite standing at a smaller height. All that remained was Sheida, Adaphal, and two Strike Marines.

They had entered the room but one minute ago with almost thrice that many.

 _"_ _Justicar? If I may be so bold,"_ Swallowing with a dry throat, she backed away, slowly towards the storeroom exit, and was only slightly relived to see the three Astartes doing the same. Good, she wouldn't be shamed for running then.

 _"_ _Aye."_ He grunted, visor never leaving the silver beast.

 _"_ _Retreat is appearing to be an increasingly viable option, not that I am suggesting such, of course."_

 _"_ _Aye, so it is."_ He agreed. _"But for me, retreat is no option. Although, I do have a plan."_

 _"_ _Might I be privy to this plan?"_

 _" '_ _When faced with superior opposition and lacking numerical superiority, it is advised to strike hard and fast from against the enemies vulnerabilities, request reinforcements, utilize available support, or seek more formidable defensive positions'."_ Adaphal quotes. Sheida places that particular citing from the one of Macharius' many writings. She did see several flaws in their current situation though, that prevented such measures from being taken.

 _"_ _Unfortunately I have yet to identify any 'vulnerabilities' that we can take advantage of. It is remarkably quick, and our current surroundings have proven to be a hindrance to our weaponry."_ Sheida nods, she had noticed how the Strike Marines could not effectively utilize their Halberds, the long hafted weapons caught on shelves and walls -while cutting through- robbed their strikes of the lethal speed needed to keep pace with the enemy. It only seemed that Adiphal with his blade had any luck in matching it, and even then only barely. If only they still had the Interceptors…

 _"_ _I don't suppose you have several dreadnaughts that you haven't told me about hidden away, do you?"_

 _"_ _They would not fit, and would struggle to maneuver more than we do. The Terminators could be considered to be such, but they will not arrive in time, I fear."_

 _"_ _I see."_ She nodded, something like resignation falling over her. _"To me that only seems to leave retreat as a valid option."_ She argues, but there is no heat in her voice.

 _"_ _When direct combat proves to avail nothing, then it is advised to preform a 'Fighting Withdrawal',"_ Contrary to his words, Adaphais and his brothers made no move to break for the storeroom doors. _"Though I have reason to believe that this beast would run us down before we could step foot outside this room. It toys with us like the Felinids do with rodents."_

 _"_ _Then what do we do?"_

 _"_ _We bite the Cat and hope our teeth can cause the wound to fester. Mayhap my captain's work will be aided my one such wound."_

She couldn't fault his logic, and stayed her grip on her sword. _"Well put,"_ She made a quick check on her hellpistols charge, mostly full. She made it a goal to drain it to half before it tears her head from her shoulders. " _May we fester, and may it choke."_

…

Falling was never pleasant.

The feeling of weightlessness superimposed by the rushing, fetid air that pressed against his armor only served to remind him of his instinctive distaste of it. The helplessness was anathema to him. The sounds of his brothers dying, and their respective runes on his visor blinking from green, to yellow, then red and finally black only stoked his odium further. He should not be here. He should be up there, fighting along his brothers, rallying them with his skill- his fanatical training put to test against and enemy that had the capability to combat and fell a Grey Knight, it was his entire purpose in the Chapter to do just that, to be the unrelenting blade against the black beasts of the Warp-

He was shaken from his meditations by a hammer blow to his back, his world spun for a moment and his ears were assaulted with the sound of water lapping at his armor, and then his senses reasserted their dominance. He had reached the bottom of the station. He checked his Auspex and found it to be cluttered with feedback and ghost-returns. He was subsumed in darkness. Far, far above he could see the pale pinprick of the hole he had fallen through, the jagged outlines of torn pipes that he had crashed through lined the edges of the shaft. The air seemed to waver and pulse, and his Auspex confirmed the presence of the viscous chemicals that poisoned the air and metal around him.

Concerned for his armors well being in the presence of such potently acidic compounds, he ran a quick diagnostic ritual and was pleased to discover that such vapors were no match against his battle plate, though he was less than pleased to find that the purity seals affixed to it were not so enduring. Red wax and parchments crumbled away as if they were nothing but cheap Ecclesiarch votive seals sold on every street corner on every hive in every sector.

Illitarus exhaled in frustration, and checked the edge of his blade. As sharp as a Mordian officers uniform, no change there. He gave his surroundings a second glance, and was not surprised to find almost everything covered in a vile, black sludge. Rotted luman fixtures aligned the walls, boxed alcoves and various openings led him to believe that this was once a common area of some sorts before the population outgrew the capacity it provided. He wondered if there were even lower levels to this station.

He walked over to one of the walls, and with a hand he wiped away some of the sludge that coated it, grime nearly three inches deep came away, and beneath it he found corroded black posters faded to the point of illegibility, but he was able to make out the date going back to the thirty-sixth millennium.

He put aside his curiosity for the moment, it would do his brothers ill to linger any more then he had, and began his efforts to find some method of exit from this rotted sublevel.

His auspex could not guide him effectively; he soon found that apparent as he tried to beseech its machine spirit into blessing him with a map of the surrounding area. He only found blanks and incomplete prints in return.

Clearly this was the result of countless years of chemical runoff from the station above, the metallic mixtures and other waste products must be playing hell with the delicate electromagicks that made up his armors sensory suite. For almost any, it would be impossible to find their way out in a timely manner.

He was not like most.

Casting out his psychic senses, the tendrils of his mind soon spread through the walls, through the decay, seeking out the path that he needed. He managed a small grin when he found just that. It was not the shortest route, but it was the most stable, he did not want to find himself stranded even lower underneath this station.

' _Were they really so poor as to be unable to purchase an incinerator?'_ He thought to himself, striding through the darkness as if it were nothing more than a shawl he could push aside and see the world beyond. He eventually came to a ladder, its rungs rusted to the point where a simple touch from his gauntlet caused the metal to flake away and mix with the sludge beneath.

This was not a holy place he was in. While that would be clear to anyone with plain disrepair, the filth and the abandonment, it was made doubly so to him. His could hear the screaming in his head. This was a haunted wake filled with malignant spirits befouled with violent ends. Corpses have been dumped and left to rot in this place, and their souls had festered here, denied their last rights.

He was in no danger, of course, his soul was shielded against Daemonkind, such weak wraiths as these were but a nuisance to his concentration at best. He still took care to recite the oaths of banishment, to further ward his soul, while on their own, they were weak, but the sheer amount of them was enough to be a danger to an untrained and unfocussed mind.

His senses foretold him of a passage up ahead, a wall that should quicken his route if he were to bash through it instead of wasting precious time searching for a way around. He doubted he would have to try very hard to do so, as he came across it he found the wall to be already partially collapsed. It was an old relic that might have been salvaged from sort of mining machine before this world had been brought into the imperium's fold. With a slight shove it finally fell to ruin and he stepped through into what could have been an atrium at some earlier date, but the filth that prevailed this place had stolen that tittle from it.

He let his senses spread a bit more, the warp was unusually calm, and the scent of Daemons was faint. The Beast, no doubt. He checked his Brothers locations on his Auspex and was not surprised to find it faulty, he could receive nothing from this location, with that lack of information his Auspex told him that they were all deceased.

He came to another wall that his senses told was a shortcut to a possible exit, and with a blow from his fist he knocked it aside. It held for the first impact, but two more swiftly taught it of its errors. In an explosion of mold and grime it fell, and he used his hands to widen it so his considerable bulk would fit through.

Ducking under the hole, Illitarus made his way down another rusted hallway, he knocked over a pile of refuse as he stepped through, but payed it no mind.

A few steps later, he stopped, and looked back.

Something was not right.

He knelt in the muck, and examined the pile a bit more closely, he couldn't tell at first but further investigation revealed the trash to be rags and cordage. Strewn about the room there was all manners of the stuff.

Internal alarms went off in the Champions head, his eyes narrowed as he considered the implications this made, something instinctive began to build within him as subliminal triggers set into his training began to whisper to his mind. He found the door to the room and ducked through. He entered a narrow hallway, the grime here was less, but no still prolific, and he was slightly more thankful for it now, it masked his footsteps considerably.

He noticed the scurrying thing almost at once. Shifting through the muck just to his left.

He didn't allow it the chance to run.

Like a whip, his gauntleted fist shot out and silenced the mewling things cries, he was careful not to damage it too extensively; the once-could-be human fell into the murk unconscious.

Without preamble he hefted the thing from the murk, it must have heard his entry and come to investigate. It was a mutant, that much was clear from the gangly additional arms sprouting from its back and the single large blind and lidless eyes tat stared murkily out at the world from where a nose would be on a pure, true human.

That was not garnered his interest, though.

It was not the pustules, the warts and fungi that grew off him, the various skin lesions that should have been fatal, the decaying stench of a corpse.

Three circles of rot, in a roughly triangular formation.

His hand closed into a fist around the throat of the Mutant.

Nurgle.

…

Brother Captain Evius turned the corner in time to see Lord Inquisitor Sheida thrown clear of the storeroom. Her armored frame broke against the far wall, impacting with enough force to dent the steel and shatter what little remained of her servo-harness. She crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Evius saw a score of strike marines in various stages of dismemberment, limbs torn free and halberds shattered, the blood of grey-knights slicked the hallway, pouring out from the storeroom and pooling together to join brothers in death.

Evius saw Justicar Adaphal, legs cut away and his own blade skewered through his throat- pinning him to floor. Evius saw his hand twitch as the venerable Justicar still struggled to breathe.

It was Sheida who held his attention, even in the face of all of this.

Sheida had been discarded like trash. Kicked around like a dog, and tossed aside when the sadist grew bored when it no longer cried when struck.

Evius recalled the story of his favored saint- Ollanius Pius.

Standing before Horus, knowing himself to be weak, to be mortal. Human. Yet knowing his duty, knowing it futile. Standing firm regardless.

Flayed, destroyed by a power far greater than him.

Martyred before the Emperor. Showing the Master Of Mankind how far His favored son had fallen.

Evius knew that the rage and hate he felt right now was pale in comparison to the true divine wrath The Master of Mankind had been beholden to in seeing such a pitifully weak- yet beautifully brave- man being cast aside, but Evius did not care. He was beyond that in this moment.

Evius was rarely one to be overtaken by emotions. Once again, he was a pragmatist above all others. He knew that to submit to emotion was to submit to folly.

But seeing a slight being, in bloody, tarnished armor, step so casually out of the storeroom. A lithe gait and arrogance surrounding it in such a way that spoke as if it had a right to be there. Flicking a bloodstained sword to clear it of excess viscera and hefting a battered shield-

Something in Evius snapped, and he let that rage That Was Of The Emperor seeing a loyal servant cast aside so carelessly flow through him- and it gave him _strength_.

 ** _"_** ** _STAND FOR THE EMPEROR AND THE INQUISITION! THE HAMMER STRIKES!"_** And He Became The Thunder.

…

In the dark. In the deep. In the pit of horrid things that mewled with too many throats and butchered with too many claws. In a hell where the pitiful hellions of misbegotten births and aborted lives, where the skulking wretches of society- more despicable than the most sadistic of men, more hated than the cruelest of tyrants, things damned for the greatest sin: the sin of flawed creation.

To take on the aspect of humanity but diverge from it and be damned with a wicked soul. Mutants most atrocious prowled in these underparts, hellish things of inhuman scope, depraved of light and life, these detestable fiends scraped together a rude living, scavenging about the pits in search of the pretty trinkets lost to the full-men above, these flung and nomadic mutants payed no heed to any true power but the power of survival.

That changed with the coming of the Child.

Among the despondent dregs there was a child, born to a thing of flesh and fat, a broodmaiden of sorts, erupting from its womb was a child that could see beyond the empty tribal feuds, and totemic salvages. It could see into the world above and beyond- it could see what had been denied its brothers and sisters and it grew angry.

This anger, this hate, it grew as its powers expanded, touching the minds of its tribe-mates, and filling their feeble minds with that same anger, that desire for an end to their suffering.

The heralds of the grandfather answered its prayers.

The cult was small at first, as were all chaos infestations, but that was quick to change, as the inhabitants of the under station gravitated towards the unnatural energies festering off of the Child. The mutations and blessing of the grandfather cured many of their pains, their misshapen bodies rotting into plague-ridden things gruesome to behold. Their appearances did not matter to the blessed mutants, the fact that their bodies so given to strife and struggle against the hostile chemicals were now proof against the very home that birthed them, did.

Pus and rot ran freely as the understation rejoiced.

So what, if it cost a few of their number? The pain was gone. And his love filled their veins, and the maggot life whispered his blessings.

Pestilent hallways one filled with the bubbling moans of single eyed heralds and their fawning mutant devotees now were filled with the raucous roar of a silver armored angel and the damned souls that it scoured from the domain of man.

" _Hear me, for I am Your Death!"_

Storming forwards the grey knights' Champion barged through a rotting wooden construction, knocking free the Nurglings that clung to his armor, squealing in pain as their forms were burned away by the runic wards, the rotting wood only hastened their departure. Snarling through his helmet the Champion swung up his blade- its surface alight with the power of his soul- and met the Daemon of nurgle in combat, its moaning cry and single fever yellow eye alerting him of its presence almost as much as the viscous tainted soul it possessed.

 _"_ _Hear me, for I am Your Doom!"_

It swung its blade downwards as if to hack him in two and the Champion easily sidestepped such a simple blow before countering with a thrust of his own, only to find the Daemon already upon him, free hand trying to grip at his arm and pull him to the ground where the living filth and nurglings will swarm him. Jerking back Ilitarus parried the rotting blade of the plague-bearer, knocking it aside as his armored fist drove into the maggot-filled guts of the monstrosity, and ripped free a rubbery spine in an explosion of flies and filth.

 _"_ _Hear me, for I am His Wrath!"_

Kicking away the already decaying corpse, the unreal energies that animated and held it to this material plane dissipating into the air, he brought up his stormbolter and thundered off a barrage of shots, clearing the hallway in front of him from the shrieking mutants that charged headlong towards him, all manner of crude implements clutched in feeble appendages. The mass reactive rounds burned them away in fiery storms of shrapnel.

 _"_ _Hear me, for I am His Will!"_

Advancing with brutal inevitability, Ilitarus mowed down another warm that drove at him from behind. Spinning on his heel Ilitarus replied with his stormbolter once more, the weapon chambering and firing over and over as its twin barrels spoke death to the corrupt and doomed.

 _"_ _Hear me, for I am The Light!"_

Ilitarus was implacable, striding forth through the muck, sword held before him in a double handed grip he lashed out not only with his blade but with his mind as well- dueling the psychic miasma that now rose around him in an effort to thwart his senses. Stepping into another ancient hallway taken over by the filth of chaos he let loose with another burst from his Stormbolter.

 _"_ _Hear me, for I am The Harbinger!"_

Chaos tainted mutants were rocked back by successive bolt round impacts, chest cavities torn open and heads turned to red mist, the Champion of the Grey Knights seventh was relentless- his very presence now seemed to glow with a golden light as he marched through the decayed halls- all thought of escape pushed aside in the face of this hated foe.

 _"_ _Hear me, for I am Justice!"_

From the dark came the wet, phlegmy roars of Plaguebearers, and emerging from the murk did three of Nurgles heralds step forth, their boil and buboes covered forms abhorrent to the grey knight. Brandishing great pitted swords of warp-wrought filth, the three monstrosities charged down the narrow hallway, great chunks of fetid skin sloughing off their forms with every step as Ilitarus met their advance with Zealous volleys from his bolter.

 _"_ _Hear me, for I am Judgment!"_

The first fell prey to the unremitting punishment; each sanctified bolt scoured the Plaguebearer in holy flame. The Champion met the surviving two in a duel of blades- and to call what followed 'combat would be to cry pardon to the martial disciplines of war. With two curt, swift movements the Knight had hewn the arms from the first Daemon, and the third strike decapitated both in one vicious cut.

 _"_ _Know me, for I am the blade against the Long Night!"_ Ilitarus growled behind his Helmet, a quick flourish from his blade removing it of tainted blood and other unknowable sick. Tromping forth over the already fading corpses, he made his way further into the den of Chaos, The same rags and cordage he had stumbled upon from before now being seen in use as to hold up hobbled together Chaos Sigils, metal pipes and other scrap being tied together in rough approximation of the vile symbols of chaos. While brash and unsophisticated, Ilitarus sniffed in disdain, he could smell the foul mark of warp-taint rolling off of each. He saw to their destruction, sanctified Adamantium shearing these profane symbols in two with ease.

He followed the trail of warp energy to its roots, the chaotic miasma thickened with every determined step, saints fire glistened off his battleplate in contact with stuff of Chaos, the thick green fog spread around him, obscuring his vision.

He dropped to one knee.

Flying so close as to sear the paint from his armor, the unstable ball of warp-power crashed against the wall behind Ilitarus and seared through with sickening ease. The Champion lunged forwards, out of the path another warp blast, his senses strained as the chaotic energies pounded against his mind with each concussive wave. In the fog he could hear the frustrated waling of whatever creature was granted such blasphemous power as its target continued to evade its attentions.

He had no chance to ponder the nature of the beast as another baleful warp blast was thrown with inhuman accuracy, whatever means of sensing him it used extending beyond his own reach as the blast splattered against the ground and, and ate away at the flooring, Ilitarus having vacated that exact spot but mere moments before.

The Grey Knight flicked through the multiple vision spectrums available to him, Radiological, Ultraviolet, Infrared, Thermal, Endothermic, Biological, X-ray and even Electroscopic feeds gave him nothing, the blanketing effects of the Chaos miasma cursed his machine spirits sensory equipment with its presence.

This was of little hindrance to Ilitarus, who did not rely on sight alone to pursue his enemies. Closing his eyes and focusing his mind with a single deep, calming breath of recycled air he cast out his preternatural senses once more, warding his mind as he did so. He _felt_ the tainted soul at the center of this murk, its feverish prayers to the dark gods, its livid hate, and above all- he could sense its Fear.

Good.

Another bolide of tainted green energy hissed through the fair fast as a whip, and Ilitarus intercepted this one with the flat of his blade, knocking it aside, the purified blade dispersing the attack as if it where a chill wind.

Snapping his bolter up he thundered off a volley and was more than pleased to hear the shrill shriek of whatever foul creature cast this fell power about this place.

Already the false fog began to subside, a fragment of the corruption that brought it about falling away in death. His auspex pinged; the miniature map resurrected to functionality with the dispersal of the fog, almost at once a comprehensive map played out into his mind, and with it, the point of exit.

…

Long ago, in the time before the Great Heresy, before the Crusade, before the Age of Strife, before the Dark Age of Technology, and the Golden age of mankind, before even the Men of Iron and before mankind had stepped out in to the stars, there was a question. It was a simple, innocuous question; one that had no real answer, for the answer was both improbable, and impossible. That question- a question that still lingers to this very day in the dark hours of the forty-third- is this:

'What happens when an unstoppable force, meets an immovable object?'

The common theoretical consensus has always been mutual destruction, a cessation of both beings, as neither can be stopped or moved.

Today, that question returns, except it is in a different light- what happens when an unstoppable force, meets another unstoppable force?

The answer plays out before us, as we speak.

The Eater turns, and meets the charge with one of its own- and it saw death rear its ugly, gristle-specked skull.

Ten massive, armored giants bearing down upon it, hulking golems of unyielding metal. It should have aborted its attack, should have leapt aside or even over, but the battle lust was upon the Eater and in its red rage it only saw another opportunity to feed.

Answering the bellowed warcry of the leader with its own silence, the Eater swung hard and fast when the frontrunner was only three paces away, its bloodstained sword glinting crimson in the harsh artificial light as it struck true against the sword wielding giant, lodging firmly in the armor, but going no further.

It knew then, that it had made a mistake.

It did not try to dislodge is blade, instead letting go and leaping backwards- avoiding the vengeful swing of the great blade by only a hairs breadth. It was forced onto the defensive in that moment, so suddenly and immediately was its killing spree curtailed it almost forgot to raise its shield to ward off the flurry of cannon rounds that followed its inglorious retreat. The goliaths did not cease their charge- thundering forwards with hammer and cannon, it skipped back again, never turning away so as its battered shield could still service it. It reeled in the face of this threat, hands clenching subconsciously as it felt for the grip of its sword- still lodged in the armor of the apparent leader, and with the sudden hollowing emotion of doubt, it responded in the only way it knew how- it attacked.

It would not yield its title of predator so easily; one successful stampede by a herd of bulls did not tame the lion.

…

Of all the weapons of the Adeptus Astartes, one of the most highly regarded is the Thunder Hammer.

Few weapons can hold claim to destructive power the Thunder Hammer possesses. It can shatter entire ranks of Xenos and Heretics with a single swing, tanks and shields are no proof against its wrath. Even mighty Titans- the uncontested Gods of War- have reason to fear the Thunder Hammer.

When Battle Brother Tyious swung his hammer, he did so in an effort to deter the beast that had lunged forwards, timing its move when his Captain was completing his own strike with his sword. He had expected the beast to dodge backwards, away from his hammer that crackled with energy that promised death to those that fell beneath its head.

When the Beast instead brought its battered shield to bear, preparing to intercept his strike while reaching out for its blade, he was honestly very surprised.

He was even more surprised when it survived.

…

The Dragons Crest Shield, stolen from under the nose of an ancient, decayed dragon, was destroyed.

It knew the hammer would hurt its favored protection, but it would soothe its surface with tender attention later by the side of a bonefire.

It did not merely _dent_ , its shield however.

Rippling arcs of energy tore at its surface, punching through ancient wards and enchantments with all the subtlety of a narc berserker in the midst of a battle rage in an underhive gladiatorial pit.

The shield didn't break it exploded.

It is reminded of the time, in the long distant past, when it fought against the Tower Golem. A thing of iron and titan, ancient shards imbued with a mighty soul to create a magnificent guardian. It held roost at the top of Sens Fortress, and it had been patient as the chosen undead climbed to its peak.

When the Undead faced it in battle, its blows were that of old myth. Any mortal or immortal creature could not stand firm against such blows- they could only be avoided. Such a lesson was one that the chosen undead learned gasping for ragged breath, crawling from the ashes of the bonfire, feeling the agony of its bones resetting after being crushed underneath its feet.

Orstien and Smaugh were in similar regard; the executioner's hammer had brought the Chosen Undead low many times before it twisted its bloodied spear in the Executioners gut, and the Hunter soon followed.

A simple hammer, held by the Silver Beetle, outdid them all.

It was thrown clear through the metal wall, the transferred force of the blow enough to render the thin sheeting useless. Skidding across the blood slicked storeroom floors its mind reeled, pain unlike anything it had felt in recent memory filtering through its head as it spasms, body trying to compensate for the shock. It did not know how many bones were shattered, but it figures that its spine must have been broken by the impact, as its legs are numb and unmoving. It tries to roll over onto its back, but its left arm fails to respond, with a quick glance it finds a bloody ragged stump of bone and meat are all that are left, the remains hang by a thread of muscle and tendon, amputated just below the elbow.

This does not worry it, as it should have.

Its one good limb fishes around in a closely guarded pack at its waist. It had lost many things when its world burned. Many weapons, many memories, and many graves, among those that it lost, was Estus.

This golden elixir cherished by the Undead was a balm to all wounds no matter how great. It glowed with a golden light from within its jade container, promising health to those who needed it. For whatever reason, the Bonefires that the Chosen Undead now sat by did not produce this healing elixir. Whatever power fueled the twin flames came not from the Fire keepers- for they were dead and gone- but somewhere else.

The silent pale green flask trembled along with the bloodied, mailed fist that held it.

A little less than a mouth full of Estus was all that remained in the entire universe.

It tipped it back, and drank it without pause.

…

Evius grunted as he tore loose the blade lodged in his terminator plate and tossed it aside. The blasted shards of shield that peppered him and his brothers' armor would have to be removed later by the ministrations of a Techmarine. _"Brilliantly done, Brother._ " Evius nodded to the marine who wielded the Nemesis Daemon Hammer. " _It is not yet over though,"_ That much was clear, the uneasy void about the place still prevailed the air with its malaise.

" _C-Captain…"_ A strangled voice reached his ears from the slaughter ground around them. Snapping his attention down, Evius quickly knelt beside the wounded Strike Marine. " _Be_ _at ease, Brother, do not try to move._ " He looked up at the Terminators behind him, awaiting his command. _"Hunt it down."_ Ordered Evius, " _Turn it to dust."_ As the Terminators ducked through the doorway into the storeroom Evius returned his attentions to the Strike marine, one of Adaphals.

While not as adapt or advanced as the various instruments of an Apothecary, Evius could readily tell that the Marines spine had been severed, rendering him immobile while his armor and enhanced physiology mended the damage. It would seem the Eater had thought him dead with one precise strike. " _The Apothecary will arrive soon. If you rise before then, guard your Fallen brothers."_

The marine reached up and with surprising strength grabbed Evius' arm as he rose to his feet. " _Captain-"_ Hissed the marine. _"I felt it!"_ The Marine struggled to sit up, pushing himself into a sitting position even as his body rebelled, armor starting to lock to keep the marine from exasperating his injuries further. " _I felt its touch!"_

" _What do you mean,"_ Evius spoke quick and harsh, already he heard the sounds of fighting within the storeroom, and he was ill to leave his brothers to face this beast without him. " _Speak quickly."_

" _Its blade is cold but its master colder still…"_ The Marine grunted, fighting against the potent analgesics that ran through his system. " _It is a hungry cold, one that lusts for the hearth all mortal beings hold within them-"_

 _"_ _Speak sense, brother, time is short."_ Evius snapped, kneeling once again and bringing his gauntlet down swiftly against the Marines helmet.

" _Souls!"_ The Marine barked, fighting against a slur in his voice. " _It devours souls! The fog around us…"_ He shook to clear his head as he slumped backwards. " _I could feel… My soul being pulled from… Its net…"_

Slumping to one side the Marine fell into the restorative coma gifted by their gene seed. Evius stood once more, and turned, charging into the storeroom, crushing overturned cabinets and desks underfoot as he ran.

 _'Souls! It devours souls!'_

The words echoed in his mind, tugging at the doubt he thought gone aboard the thunderhawk, and shaping it into dread.

…

It now always eyed the hammers.

It tracked every weapon flung about in this discordant melee, but it always watched the hammers.

Their arcing swings that shattered shelving units with ease, or the overhead strikes that thundered into the floor, shaking the entire room.

It ducked back under the coruscating blade of a halberd and neatly leapt upwards, pushing off a careening shelf to land outside the ring of giants.

With equal parts frustration and rage on both sides, the dance began again. Running through the maze of shelves that went deep into the back parts of the storeroom it slid under tables and vaulted over desks, determined to stay one step ahead of the Armored Giants, they pursued relentlessly, cannons thundering after It whenever it broke cover between the isles of shelving.

Often they didn't bother with waiting for its appearance; relentlessly firing the explosive cannons to destroy any further cover it may utilize. Boxes and crates were blasted open, shedding their contents across the floor. More than once something ignited along the shelves and soon the warehouse burned with the light of fire.

The Undead for its part was on the defensive; it had no weapon on its person- its short sword for all it knew was still lodged in the side of the King-Beetle. Its posture would change soon, though. It needed to return to the bonefire, from there it could draw forth one of the paltry few weapons that came with it from its dead world, it already knew what it would take to break the shell of these giants.

Another cascade of explosives thundered over-head and it could not help itself but to duck, it knew full well what a direct hit would do to it in its ravaged state, its armor was all but useless now.

It could feel the pulsating heat of the bonefire well before it could see it, and in truth, a dead heart felt all that more relaxed because of it.

It had little time. Skidding to a halt next to the twin flames, it channeled that familiar energy into its being, wounds knit closed and the world around it seemed to become that much less clear. Reaching forwards into the fire, a hand closed over something solid within the flames- and _pulled._

…

The first among them to fall was the one who had sundered its shield.

Striking from behind, skirting the edge of their sensors before diving in, it attacked from a position not of advantage, but of vengeance. It singled out the Terminator who had broken a favored toy, and payed him back in kind.

The blade was fearsome and cursed, almost as tall as the Eater; it gleamed with a hazy radiance. A dread malignance was stored within that blade, a savagery not unlike Khorn, but still foreign. It came from webbed halls and toxic swamps, it was a black beast changed by ill hands, and now it was chained, but it would never be truly docile.

Every smashing blow tore through armor and cut deep into the Marine beneath, but the Terminators refused to yield in the face of this abomination. The large two handed blade clashed against halberds and hammer staves, but the beast was infuriatingly fast, it cut and weaved through their ranks, making a mockery of their reactions with a simplicity that defied reason.

There was no attacking it either, as it weaved in between them, it positioned itself _just_ in such a matter that Halberds caught against shelves or even the weapons of other brothers. Those who stepped back- tried to distance themselves from the melee in order to reposition and attack in such a manner that would not hinder their weaponry, would soon find that same black blade cutting deep into their armor, and drinking of their soul.

" _Squad! Reposition!"_ Roared one of the Terminators, armed with a blazing Halberd that he swung down, knocking away one of the probing blows the Eater was so fond of. Even as he knocked the powerful strike aside it had already flanked around him- as he turned he saw the double handed sword arc up to cut him in half- but for it to be deflected by his brother aside him, his own blade striking out and clashing with a burst of sparks as the restrained evil met the purity of his soul.

 _"_ _Stand firm! Guard your brothers back!"_ Three had fallen, and of ten now only stood seven. But seven terminators still stood, and they were learning.

" _Form a ring!"_ Adamantium slammed against Adamantium as Grey knights fell into formation back-to-back and shoulder to shoulder, weapons held at the ready to strike and defend. There was no avenue of attack against such a phalanx, to charge headlong against this would be to die.

Hidden by shadow, behind an overturned desk, a mailed fist palmed a black orb of stone and metal. A fuse of twine was rolled and plugged a gap. It may have smiled- though not in mirth.

The sound of a hiss and a click drew the attention of the terminators, tense as they were, they took nothing for chance, from behind a row of shelves the Eater sprang forth, blade raised in one hand with an inhuman strength that seemed foreign to its stature, in the other-

…

Evius came in time to see his Terminators fall

He felt it- something wrong, ill and sick. He saw a small, primitive bomb, tossed underhand up into the air, arcing over the terminators and landing in the middle of their defensive ring.

An eruption of black flame, scouring the backs of the armor, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then they started to _rot._

No ward was proof against this flame. A twisted corrupted fire that ate at the soul of its victims, burning from the inside out and leaving nothing but breathing puppets.

The screams echoed in his vox and in his mind, as the last of his Brothers were consumed by oblivion.

He could not pray for their souls.

He could not beseech the Emperor to guide them to his side.

He could do nothing.

Yet he would still fight.

He backed away, slow, and deliberate. He eyed the Beast as it stalked about the ruined shelves, staring out at him from behind a dented bloodied helm that almost mimicked his.

He took note of his surroundings. He had at least twenty feet of space around him, nothing to obstruct his blows. Nowhere for it to hide. " _You have slaughtered my brothers. Devoured their souls."_ He rolled his shoulders, testing each servo, making sure that every system in his armor was at full functionality and its machine spirit of warrior birth was eager for spilt blood. " _I cannot allow you to exist in this galaxy, after what you have done."_ His stormbolter cycled in preparation, and all systems showed green. " _You will face me now."_ It charged.

…

Another rotting corpse decorated the body-strewn undercity that was the lower regions of the station, and Ilitarus swung again to add another. " _Filthy Chaos spawn!"_ He grunted, a boil-ridden beast howled in agony as he plunged his glittering sword down its throat. He silenced its cries with a swift discharge from his stormbolter.

Even as his latest kill is dispatched another rises from behind it with grasping claws and a mouth of fangs. It is slain just as easily, this entire horde that besieges him is inconsequential and a waist of his skill and ammunition. As he carves a path through it, staining hallways with tainted blood, it slows him, however. Every second that he spends dealing with this filth is another that robs him of his duty- to fight at his Captains side.

+ _Ilitarus!+_ Now freed from the jamming interference of a chaos psyker, the champion could now hear his charge, as well as clearly see how gruesome a wound the Beast has dealt them. Among his brothers He and the Captain are the only left in a position to fight. " _Yes my captain?"_ He responds.

+ _I have locked blades with the-+_ A pause, the sound of metal against metal echoes through the transmission. +- _Enemy.+_ He grunts in exertion, and Ilitarus feels a pang of nervous regret squeeze his hearts, he should have never left his Captains side. + _It is proving to be a considerable challenge.+_

Another spawn lunges at him from behind, Ilitarus does not even waste his blade on this one, instead kicking back like a mule and pulping its body with a single blow.

 _"_ _How do you fair? I'm making my way to you but have encountered a significant chaos-mutant presence understation. It is slowing my progress."_

 _+I'm doing all I can to-+_ More steel on steel, and sounds of stress, + _'to hold it in check here, push through with all speed, any survivors can be purged later.+_

 _"_ _Can you disengage? Do not fight if you cannot win, Captain, we have lost enough brothers to this beast as is, I will not lose you."_ The Champion doesn't even bother with his blade as he bashes past several more misshapen things, they claw at his armor, trying to latch on to his plate with gnarled black nails. " _Can you preform a fighting withdrawal?"_

 _+Too damned fast,+_ Evius responds, a tinge of pain in his voice. + _Will cut me down the moment I give it-"_ Even through the Vox Ilitarus can hear something slam into his Captain with deadly force, + _Hrk!+_ Evius coughs, and the Vox cuts out, but by his psychic nature he can still feel the burning soul of his Captain- it is in pain.

" _Captain!"_ Stumbling for a moment Ilitarus ignores rusted hatchet that breaks against his armor and chips away at a purity seal, favoring instead to shout into his helmets vox. _"Captain respond!"_

 _"_ _Captain!"_

 _+Hold yourself, I'm fine,+_ Evius' voice crackles through, laced with controlled pain, + _Merely winged me by surprise- though I doubt its next blow will be so- forgiving+_

" _Hold fast, Evius, just stay alive I'm almost with you! The Emperor Protects, Evius, stay alive!"_

…

By the Emperor and all his saints, by the blood of the Primarchs and the ways of the Ancients! Evius had faced down greater daemons, had smashed aside the dreg legions, had bested foul chaos champions- each duel was a test of wills and stretch of his martial and mental skills.

This… This fight was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

It made a mockery of his abilities, dancing around him with vile ease and ducking- diving into his guard and cutting ragged gauges into his plate with a pathetically antiquated blade- that same blade that now held up against his psychic might buoyed by his own superhuman strength and terminator plate! His force sword crackled and sparked with energy of his will- he was pouring everything he had into his strikes, blows that could banish greater daemons if they hit.

 _If._

The two handed bastard-sword it swung around was as effective at parrying his attacks as it was in cutting gouges through his armor. His Force sword smashed against it time and time again, and it barley showed. The fiend let itself be carried by the force of his blows, using the momentum to spin into its next attack- the tally of cuts he had received from this ran across his armor.

He was being made a fool of by a spindly creature that shouldn't have been able to even _wield_ the weapon it carried. This notion threatened to overwhelm him with anger, he kept it in check albeit barely. He forced himself to remain calm, to target openings he knew he was to slow to capitalize on with his blade, so he stopped trying to use his sword, and opted for something significantly harder to dodge.

It slipped inside his guard dancing under his outstretched blade that he purposefully let linger for a fraction too long. He saw what would happen next, and chose the lesser of two wounds- the heavy two-handed great sword pierced his shoulder rather then his heart as he leaned to the side a moment before it struck and counterattacked. Surging forwards in a headlong stampede where it was caught unable to dodge after its latest strike, his mass slammed into the slight frame of the armored fiend with as much power as he could put behind him and his armored bulk.

It _flew._

The sparks and sounds of scraped armor echoed back down across the storeroom, the thing flew nearly forty meters and bounced another ten. He eyed the prone form warily. He was not one to fall for tricks. He knew that it was not dead- he was not stupid. Evius would have used his storm bolter, but it was non-operational, the first blow from that heavy blade pulping the barrels. Its internal systems remained intact, thankfully. He was sure the Techmarines would not have been pleased at its destruction.

Instead, he drew forth power from the warp, channeling it through him, and lanced out bolts of incandescent lightning.

The reaction was immediate.

Whip like reflexes, snapped out, grabbing that infamous spike of metal, and spearing it through a gap in the plating- a grounding rod –it caught the lightning,

The blade exploded into twin flames, wrapping around the ancient blade with lazy twisting spirals.

Evius did not hesitate, his enemy's ploy had saved it but it had proved him in the right. He could hear the Vox link of his brothers strengthen, the rest of his scattered squad forcing their way through bulkheads to reach him. He charged. The armored bulk of his Terminator armor pistoling ceramite encased feet into the decking as he smashed his way forwards.

The Thing blitzed him straight back, pure in its intent.

He could respect it for that.

Glowing with warp light, Evius bolstered not his blade, but himself, funneling the vortex of raw power into his body, and letting it resonate within him, He let it consume him.

He couldn't hope to match the blade work of the enemy thing.

But he could endure it.

The great sword pierced adamantium and ceramite. It punctured two lungs and his primary heart and nicked his secondary. It had cracked through his rib plate and sent the shards spiraling into muscle, and it had severed several ports in his black carapace, some of his internal automated suspension systems went dead.

He staggered from the force of the blow, and the thing watched, salivating it would seem, as his lifeblood dripped down the groove of its blade, reaching the hilt and dribbling to the floor.

Evius started to laugh.

He let go of his sword and with both hands he gripped the blade, and held it firmly in place. Even though it tugged and tried to yank it free with considerable strength, it could not directly contest the power a marine in Terminator armor held. " ' _Returned from perdition and into the arms of man, did the Angel Kneel in fealty to The Lord, and did tally the deeds of what it had wrought:'"_ Evius grinned with blood-flecked teeth as he spoke. His eyes blazed with warp power as he gazed into the Eaters Helm and challenged the abyss he saw within.

 _" '_ _To the Darkness, I brought Your Light. To the Xenos, I brought Your Retribution."_ He snarled, contempt dripping from his voice like the gore from his wound. " _'To the Abomination…' "_ Runes along his armor flared with holy light, flames rippled from the eyes of his helm, his hands crackled with coalesced psychic power.

" _'_ _I brought Your Hate.' "_

Evius unleashed the storm of psychic power welling up inside him. In one cataclysmic burst he forced its totality through the sword that skewered his body, the steel ran red hot and lightning licked at the surface, scouring down the length of the blade and arcing off to tear at the hell-knight that accosted him. There was no dodging; no evasion or passage it could take to gain sanctuary from this attack for it wielded the very tool Evius used to deliver it.

As the blue warp-light left his eyes and his stature slumped from the cession of energies that buoyed him to such strength Evius fell to one knee, releasing his hold on the channel of warp power that had sustained him from falling for so long. The power fled from him, and he dare not call back upon it, he had not the strength to control that torrent of energy for any longer then he already had. With a grunt of discomfort the Brother captain tore the scorched black sword from his wound, charred flesh and blood flaked from the horrible rent as he tossed the cursed blade away.

He payed heed to the charred corpse before him, smoke rose from cherry red metal as it seared the flesh beneath, tattered rags smoldered and burned, and faint ghosts of lightning arced off from its body into the floor.

" _Brother Ilitarus_ …" He hissed across the vox. " _I have defeated the enemy_."

 _+Hold, my Captain,+_ Ilitarus answered. He was the only among them left standing. _+I am almost there!+_

He was having difficulty breathing, but that was not of any immediate concern, his secondary lungs were functioning normally. He resolved not to be on his knees when his Brother arrived.

Heaving himself upwards, leaning on his force sword for leverage, he staggered upwards, he stumbled when his blade slid slightly, and ducking forwards he caught himself.

It was what saved him.

The howling revenant lashed out at him, a blazing figure defined by requites and molded by wrath. A familiar straight sword tore through the flooring, sparks and dark energies castrated the decking, tearing a burning trench through the metal- the screech of torn metal only eclipsed by the insane berserker roar of the revenant that besieged him.

It offered him no respite as it lunged forward, sword drawn back and swung wildly, the glittering straight sword creased his helm, carving sparks and splitting ceramite. The blow staggered him, forcing him back several steps as his vision swam and breath caught in a clipped note of pain.

He recovered, reserves of adrenalin slamming into his system, taxing his remaining and damaged heart. The pain in his chest was immense, but he fought through it, punching into overdrive as he brought up the blade to block the next titan strength blow. It struck and once more he found himself forced back a step, his indignation cried for recompense and he parried the next lightning swift cut and attacked with his own stab. He overcompensated; his balance tipping as he focused on surviving the next blow, and he found himself tipping over as the revenant being -steaming as if still fresh from the fire of a forge- braced one foot against him and _heaved._

His armored frame smashed into the deck, denting the metalwork, a shower of sparks coruscating out from under him, and blistering heat battered his frame as a lash of fire surged from the outstretched hand of the forbidden knight.

 _"_ _Witch-kin!"_ He seethed aloud, bolstering his mental defenses against psychic attack, yet, even as the flames licked at him, as he felt their heat and the smell of ceramite blasted with power it could not refract. The runes emblazoned on his aegis armor did not ignite, they did not scream with repulsing fury. Yet his mental wards, and his soul, screamed in agony as the raking claws of a pariahs touch gouged into his core. The silent flames lacerated his mind with the dark powers of that which swallowed up the warp in ancient times.

It, was killing him. All he could do was funnel his will into his blade, and hold it before him like a shield, the lash of fire swarmed around the blade, coiling and uncoiling like those perfidious twin flames upon the iron spike.

The conflagration halted, and the burning embers of corporeal flame were snuffed out with the sudden clap of air rushing in to fill the void.

Evius stared out from behind his helm, blue visor lenses meeting the charred, archaic helm. Warped and malformed by holy fire. The Knight stood strong, a secondary blade, perhaps a primary even, held tightly in one hand. It was with a start that he remembered that blade- the same one that it used in combat against him and his terminators in the hallway outside the storeroom- the same one he had torn free from his armor and left outside- did it have two?

It raised its blade, an executioner's blow.

In his final moments Evius glanced towards the back of the storeroom, near the fallen great sword he had thrown. Its end was stained with his blood; crisped black by the heat of the lightning that cascaded down its surface to burn away the monster that wielded it. He glanced back, behind the Knight poised to end him, and he noted the sickly black pool of blood that stained the paneling around it. A red mirror.

He did not remember striking the knight with a bleeding wound.

" _Captain!"_

A fearsome cry erupted from the throat of an interloper- it was the battle call of a Warrior: rage, faith, fire, and righteousness embodied in the cant of challenge.

Ilitarus imposed himself between the knight and his captain, his own force blade swimming with incorporeal power, the glittering silver stained warpish purple and azure blue- sparks erupted as it intercepted the killing strike, a roar of hate snarled from Ilitarus' helm, lenses glowing as holy fury coursed through him, lending him the strength of Heroes.

" _You. Shall. NOT! Harm my captain!"_ Electric flashes seared the air, arcing off the locked blades. " _My name is Demino Ilitarus, Champion of the Seventh Brotherhood."_ Ilitarus heaved, and forced the Eater backwards, causing the fiend to be staggered by the power of the Astartes Champion. " _You will die by my blade, hell thing."_ He swung his force sword in an intricate pattern and leveled it at the Battered Knight.

The Eater, stood silent, still, and then it raised its straight sword, the ornate silver glittering from the luminous sparks of Ilitarus' own blade-

And bowed.

Evius grunted in vague surprise, Ilitarus did not.

The Beast adopted a double handed grim on its sword, falling back into a fighting stance, with that, the two warriors charged.

Where Evius had been slow, cumbersome but powerful in his terminator armor, Ilitarus was the inverse. He cut and swayed around the strokes of the abominations blades, his own carving ever more fearsome patterns in the dank light of the storeroom. Where Evius had hacked, slashed and stabbed- the champions' incorporated every subtle movement and missed strike into a parry and extending it into a counterstroke- it was a duel between a being that had devoted every moment to the perfection of the blade, and a beast that embodied the brutal nature of its weapon.

The Knight ducked under the horizontal slash of Ilitarus' sword, bringing up its own- still mastered in a double grip, the point spearing up to catch the Champion under the chin of his helm. Ilitarus caught the blow with the pommel of his sword and knocked the offending weapon aside. He was not finished yet, though, his fist still clenched around the grip of his nemesis sword struck out and impacted the chest plate of the abomination.

The steel should have yielded, crumpled back and shattered under the force of the blow- but it did not, yet it was still affected, few things could take the full force punch of an Astartes and not be cowed. The fire-warped plate bent, buckled and was further malformed by the none-too gentle ministrations of Ilitarus.

Fighting for distance the knight skipped back, swaying on stiff legs, a hand grasping feebly at the massive rent in its armor. Ilitarus did not allow it any reprieve, powering forwards, boots pounding into the decking, blade raised and crackling with the power of his mind, though covered in blood and grime, armor corroded in some places and warped in others- he was truly magnificent.

The beast met his blade with its own, and each thunderous strike, Ilitarus forced it back, each step backwards another desperate block with the clang of steel against adamantium. It tried to counterattack, to somehow find a gap in the omnipresent assault that befell it and it might have been able to had its armor not caught against itself, the fluidity of its motions hindered by the bent plate scraping and locking as malformed wedges tore into straps and clasps.

Its former maneuverability was further compromised by the ever looming Ilitarus, his skill with the blade was legendary amongst the Seventh, and he proved his right to the title of champion on more then one occasion, but in this fight it became cemented. He fought not only to protect his Captain, his liege, but also to avenge the fallen, and sustain the honor of his brotherhood. He fought to bring justice to the countless lives made forfeit by the hand of this hell-knight; he fought to erase this abomination from the face of existence.

He let loose with another furious barrage of cuts, sweeping his blade in tight concentric formations, dashing aside the feeble counters and failed parries of his foe, biding his time, weakening the fiend with increasingly powerful strikes against its guard, battering down its resistance- but to its credit never once did it give in to desperation, it simply continued to methodically guard, countering when it could- searching for a break in his relentless assault, and opening to exploit, a change of tactics it could employ against him.

Ilitarus would not give it the chance to do so, he never struck from the same vector, never re used combat patterns and methodology, he knew that if he faltered, if he let it regain its composure and rebalance- then it would strike back, forcing him into a defensive gambit where it could force him into a weak guard, force him to adopt a failing retreat and pick him apart at its leisure.

He snapped his wrist out from the grip oh his blade, batting aside the straight sword, along the flat of the steel, he forced his own opening- He struck.

The crimson tip of the force sword erupted from the back of The Eater. Psychic power coursed through it, and Ilitarus felt the coldness of his enemy, the empty core of what should have been a soul.

He yanked the blade free, and against all possibility, the Knight still stood. He dashed his fist across the helm, crumpling it a vicious blow, and with a subtle flourish, he spun and decapitated the knight as it fell.

" _For the Honor of He Upon The Throne."_ He intoned, flicking his gore stained blade, removing the worst of the blood and rot.

He was at his captain's side in the next instant. His blade mag locked to his back just below the generator, he gripped the armored bulk of his commander, hauling him to his feet. + _My captain,_ \+ He spoke over the vox now, _+How badly are you wounded_.+ Evius shook his head. "I'll live," he grunted, pulling off his helm, the dead metal fell to the deck, he breathed heavily, his voice thick with suppressed pain. "But of our brothers…" He cast his gaze about the room; the cut and torn bodies of Astartes littered the corners. He averted his gaze. He left the words unspoken, dying in his mouth like ash.

Ash…

Fire…

He felt an acrid taste in his mouth that was not blood. The throbbing pulse in his mind that was dread returned.

"Wait," He twisted around, breaking from Ilitarus's grip, stumbling slightly as he did so, and feeling something tear inside him at the sudden, jerky movement. "By the throne." He whispered.

With rising disgust he watched the headless corpse of The Eater decay into ash, and then dissolve into blood. A red smear spread across the deck from where it lay. Smoldering embers ate away at the ruined armor, flaking bits of metal turned to charcoal and drifting away, evaporating into the stale air, while others cried red and melted into the growing puddle. The corpse, the armor, the organs, they sank down, liquefying in a putrid mess.

Soon, there was nothing left at all.

" _A disgusting end for a wretched beast._ " Ilitarus sneered and took the arm of Evius, holding him upright. He gathered the Captains blade for him and thrust it back into his empty hands. " _We have vanquished a great evil today, Captain_." He motioned them forwards. Evius did not move. His gaze was fixated on the spreading gore.

"Ilitarus, hold." He gasped, his ruined lungs making themselves known again. " _Captain_?" Ilitarus obeyed, his concern clear even with his helmet obscuring his regal features.

"It's not yet over." He stared back at the burning blade.

He tensed as the flames twisting around the metal blew into a silent conflagration and licked at the metal floor.

He cursed as the deck ran molten, and a gauntleted hand pulled itself up from the molten metal, grasping the solid decking at the edge of the pool of fire. Slowly, it was birthed from the boiling womb of the blade.

It was an archaic knight, garbed in a tattered, burnt blue tunic, warped silver plate, a catastrophic wound to the front torso having bent the metal beyond all repair and hindering movement immensely. It carried a straight sword in its right hand. It pulled itself from the pool of fire, the flames licking greedily- reverently- at its body. It stood before them, whole once more. Ilitarus was incredulous, this could not be the same being that he had vanquished- but the grizzly rent in its armor from his blade was there, displayed almost proudly.

It regarded them from within the hissing flames of a bonfire.

The helmet was gone. It was grasped in a gauntleted hand.

The light of the flames sundered even their enhanced Astartes eyesight.

The figure rolled its shoulders and cracked its neck in leisure, as if savoring what was about to ensue; with disgusting slowness it shed the ruined plate armor.

The helmet and chest plate fell back into the boiling the metal. They did not melt- they vanished from sight like stones dropped in water.

It reached down, languid in its reclaimed flexibility. It reached into the boiling metal, it pulled forth a familiar straight sword, feeling its balance, testing its weight. A flame erupted from the palm of its left gauntleted hand.

The purple flame, evil and corrupt, laughed and crackled as it erupted into a blazing torrent, engulfing The Eaters palm, and it _slammed_ its hand into its chest, Ilitarus swore he heard bones crack, skin rupture, fingers digging into flesh and distributing that poison fire into pulsing veins, corrupting a dead heart with power.

The fire spread, flowing over its body, cackling and shrieking with foul winds as it engulfed limbs and covered its face with shadow, the room _pulsed_ with the sudden surge of entropy and visceral ancient evil, power that corrupts with strength and suckles at the blood of its holder.

"Now you die."

Its voice was hollow.

…

Evius woke up.

There was blood in his mouth. He tried to spit. His throat was dry and cracked.

He tried to open his eyes. All he could see was red. Thick Astartes gore coated his face. He tried to blink it away. He could not feel his right arm. Its bones shattered by hysterical strength.

He tried to remember, tried to recall how he came to be discarded like an abandoned chassis, but his head ached with an oppressive pain.

He could hear combat, but it sounded as if it was being fought a great deal away. Echoing clangs and shouts, impacts sending dull thrums through the floor.

The world felt numb to his senses.

He squeezed his eyes shut. With a monumental effort he brought up his arm and scraped away the congealed blood. His blood. He opened his eyes. Through the parted gore he could see.

He could see a valiant Knight, sparking sword tested against a Daemon. A shadow fiend, its own blade immersed in bale-fire, dark flames licking from its form, thick blood flowed from a pulsing violet core in its chest, spider webs of energy stitched across its dark visage like corrupted veins.

The Knight was losing. Ilitarus was losing. Thunderbolt quick strikes scoured bleeding rents in his armor, his blade always a second too slow, while his enemy moved a second too fast.

The Champion staggered and he fell to a knee, the fiend stunning him with a howling overhead blow, the blade sparked in protest as it slammed into Ilitarus' force sword, but it was more than enough to earn a grunt of pain from the silver armored hero.

It slammed its blade against Ilitarus again, bringing down another overhead strike, its guttural bellows flooding the chamber, it slammed the flaming blade down again, battering the Champion who struggled to keep his Force word up against such relentless attacks, he held, until-

The cackling, flaming fiend seemed to swell with dark power as it brought its blade down again, smashing aside the Champions defense. It carved a horrid gash along Ilitarus's chest plate from which flames leapt as much as blood did. Even with such a blow, it would take more to best the Champion of the Seventh, he struck out with his fist and knocked the fiend back, gauntlet connecting directly with its gut, it did not stagger the fiend, the second blow did that- pushing to his feet, Ilitarus swung with his fist again, and the satisfying feeling of metal pulverizing the jaw of the beast was known to him. The fiend _flew_ backwards, but the rest this provided did not last for more than an instant- it was already righting itself, howling through broken teeth as it bore down on the champion again, its blade a grey and red blur as it arced towards the Champions neck. Ilitarus only had a second to react- bringing his blade to intercept the strike, and before he could retaliate again, he was forced back a step as it twisted around and attacked from another vector entirely, the ring of metal against metal the only signal that Ilitarus had managed to black that as well before it launched into another succession of quick strikes against his guard, each one blacked by the merest fraction.

Again it came at him with a vicious thrust aimed past his guard that scraped at his armor, drawing blood before his blade nocked it aside, but again it shrugged off these counters, weaving around them and attacking instead, another scrap adorned the Champion.

It cut at his legs, hoping to imobolize him, and it nearly did, a gash in one leg bleeding freely, blood seeming to be sucked out by the greedy fire. He snarled, taking another wound as he swung back with a hastily aimed

But he did not fall.

He forced himself to stand, staggering back as another succession of blows rained down upon him, he fought one handed, his left trying to staunch the blood flowing from his side, angry black flames licking at his armor even as blood flowed over the flames.

It was a corrosive wound.

The Strength of Ilitarus was a legend to behold, his armor was in tatters and he still kept fighting, but as all men knew, even legends could die, and Ilitarus was reaching the end of his Brilliant fiery legend rapidly, he would not last much longer.

Evius knew what he had to do.

He set his gaze upon the blade, grim determination fighting through pain, shunting the sense of agony into perdition. He began to crawl.

His right hand scraping, pulling his terminator bulk across a bloody surface.

Ilitarus fought for his life, and for his Captains. His muscles screamed in protest as he intercepted the blade hungering for his neck, the force of the blow rocked him backwards, stunning his arms. Servos whined in protest as -another blow, low this time, to his legs- were pushed beyond their capacity, sparking fitfully. His armor was failing him; each missed guard saw more and more of it shaved off, turned to scrap. His veins were filled with warp power, pushing him onwards beyond the point of Astartes endurance- but it was barley enough. He could feel the warp around him in turmoil; he could feel it actively retreating from this _thing_ that hounded him. Whatever vile magicks it had in possession, they were not of the Warp, and _it terrified the_ immaterium because of it.

He hissed through grit teeth, evading a high cut, but failing to guard against the following cross thrust that spawned from an impossibly fast reversal.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Evuis, indomitable Captain Evius, begin to crawl.

He saw his target, and his eyes widened in realization. He narrowly evaded the plunging strike that sought to carve him in twain. He lunged forwards, fighting for space as the wall behind him began to grow close. His offensive was cut short; the harrowing blade of fire flickered and gouged a ragged groove along his right pauldron, ethereal flames scorching sacred ceramite.

He backhanded a twisting slash, diverting it away, destroying his Wrist mounted stormbolter even further- this fiend knew of them, the first engagement taught it the value of disabling their ranged weaponry before anything else.

The blow tore it from its mount completely; he did not mourn the loss, as it gave him the opening he needed to gain space, to lure it further from Evius.

He was dying.

He felt the flames burn in his wounds, seeping into his body, ruining his insides.

It did not burn like Warp fire. It could not be put out like Warp fire.

He attacked: a simple thrust turned into an inside sweep, aimed low, for the legs. It was angering, how easy it was blocked, and with such force. A slight tap turned into a crushing blow by the fiend of shadows.

He glanced behind it, eyeing his Captains progress. It was slow, but he was strong, he did not abate in his agonizing journey.

Ilitarus caught the next blow across his left thigh, the blade cut deep, and fire erupted from the wound. He did not scream. He let it cut, and stabbed back, confident in his speed

He misjudged.

Faster than he knew possible the fiend let go of its blade with one hand- but suffered no lack of strength from it- and grabbed his wrist. Roaring in guttural grunts and snarls- the language of beasts and the deranged, it twisted his wrist and squeezed. Ceramite cracked under its fingers along with muscle and skin, it was only thanks to his reinforced bones that his hand did not fall away along with his blade.

He did not scream.

It swung for the killing blow as he fell to his knees. Time slowed for him and as he gazed up at the descending sword he saw his reflection amongst its blood slick surface. His helm stared back at him, and for a moment he thought the red light that shined off the blade to be the ceaseless fire that burned from his wounds. He thought this until the Lasbolt smashed into the fiends shoulder and the straight sword flew wide, cutting a burning gouge in the metal decking instead of Ilitarus.

For the next few moments, no one moved.

Half dead, drenched in gore and bleeding from a thousand different lacerations and grievous wounds, Lord Inquisitor Sheida Bruat staggered into the storeroom. Her battered, beaten, and blessedly robust hellpistol gripped tightly in one shaking hand, still steaming from its discharge.

"I said… That I'd… be back..."

She bared cracked and blood-flecked teeth, and fired again.

The shot cut smoothly through the air, and blasted the fiend back a pace, gouging a hole in its vambrace, another shot scorched the air, punching through its arm, searing bone and muscle, another shot, this one wide by an inch- then another, and another-

The Beast shielded its head with emaciated arms that were no proof against the barrage of las fire, it howled with insane rage and disregarded Ilitarus in favor of destroying this new interloper instead. It crouched, ducking under another burst of las and leapt at the ruined inquisitor.

Lunging forwards from his knees, Ilitarus lashed out and gripped the leg of the fiend before it could reach the inquisitor. The champion snarled as the beast whipped around and hacked at the Champion that thought to restrain it, each cut digging deep and leaving burning wounds that stank of charred flesh and sulfur. The Champion let none of this stop him, mustering his strength as he pulled the fiend back towards him.

Sheida fumbled with her pistol, her only good hand short two fingers and her worse hand short her entire arm. She gripped the butt of her pistol in her mouth as she sought to eject the spent power pack. She could only watch helplessly as the Grey Knights Champion wrestled bodily with the shadow cloaked fiend, one hand wrapped around the pommel of its blade, struggling to keep it away from his neck while he throttled the monster with the other, slamming its head back against the floor with single minded repetition, grunting with every blow as it gripped at his helmet, fingers leaving deep gauges as it raked its nails over his helm.

Evius dragged himself hand over hand, until he reached the twin flamed blade. He could feel the ancient energies rolling off it like waves from an unending ocean, resisting the urge to block it away from his mind he instead opened himself to it, and reached out in both body and soul.

Holding it was like touching hot coals.

Evius felt himself become engulfed by the flame, his mind burning from the contact, his armor grew hot and paint was burned off ceramite from the prolonged touch- he did not falter, he did not let go. He forced his mind past the heat.

All at once the Fiend stopped struggling, stopped clawing at Ilitarus, instead it shrieked, pulling away from him with animal desperation, and as the Champion struggled to keep it contained something in reality _broke._

The world _howled._ Time slowed. Adrenaline pumped. Wounds bled.

It aborted its attack, slipping away from Ilitarus who grabbed at it again, his fingers falling short as it made a desperate charge at Evius, locked in concentration so was he that he did not notice it.

Sheida spat blood and oaths, fierce eyes blazing as she let jammed home another power back and fumbled the hellpistol back into her wounded hand. She let loose shot after volley of crimson bolts at the monster, some striking and stumbling it, others missing.

Evius.

He called upon the powers of the warp one more time.

He poured everything he had into the blade. Pushing past the wall of heat to reach the center.

He pushed his very soul into the metal spur.

Its flames grew bright.

He let his mind touch that of the fire.

Its fire grew hot.

He saw into its core, he let himself be drawn in by the hungry nothing. He saw its burning center- a link to the Old Warp.

The fiend reached for the spark at the center of the blade.

With his soul, Evius reached it first.

The dark soul of the fiend tore into his.

He closed his fist, in both body and spirit.

The Ember broke.

The Blade broke.

Fire cleansed the room.

…

Brothers Daiblos, and Hestule gripped there Halberds tightly, drugs and restoratives coursing through them, their wounds still biting at their aching bodies. Brother Genion prayed, and sheathed his cracked and battered nemesis falchions. His fists were clenched.

The Servitors removed the last body part. A charred hand still clenching the ruined remains of its weapon, finger depressing a trigger even in death.

Twenty-three brothers had fallen, and of those, twenty of them would never fight again, and only one of those would do so outside of a dreadnaught. Adaphal would not be the same with brother Tavian gone.

The bits and pieces of their brothers, or the charred remains of them, they were ruined and dead. Not even there gene seed was recoverable.

Ilitarus directed the serf's movements; his body was in shambles, and his armor ruined. Still he refused aid until the taint of this place was removed, several targeting beacons were placed inside the station, and the surrounding surface stations so that a precise orbital bombardment may be preformed.

Evius was catatonic. His body still breathed and his mind responsive, yet he would not wake.

The inquisitor was alive. Barley. Her body was destroyed, all that remained was raw, scortched black bone and gristle, organs were seared and muscles fried. Her skull stared out at the world through empty sockets. Yet still she lived, her brain pulsing to a weak hearts beat. Techno sorceries inlaid in her blood preserved all that mattered in a mortal shell.

They boarded the Thunderhawks, their heads high, but hearts weary.

…

He was falling. Though his mind was shattered, burnt by a hells fire, he could still think, he could imagine. His soul swam through the empty eclipse of his head. A hollow void where his great intellect once resided, leading his brothers through battle against the calamity known as Daemon-kind. He set in place, another stone. And admired his work.

The spread was too thin, he decided, dusting his hands of grit, he grabbed the wooden rake, and pulled back the fuarthest granit, moving it inwords.

He exhaled with a hum, and moved it again, adjusting it to sit atop the sand instead of whether within. . Satisfied with its position, he stood again and carved a three rivet deep dircle around the polished granit.e.

Much better, he thought to himself, setting his tool aside, he folded his legs beneath him, and closed his eyes. Letting go of the illusion once again.

He was listening. From his sanctuary- his soul, he cast about the psychic net thatspread out through what was once him. It was like traveling through the dusted corridors of ancient places, so much history and regrets incountable. This darkness had color and light to it somehow, A canvass packed atop a pile of oaass

He was waiting.

He held the spark within him, and it wanted it.

It could not have it, for it was evil.

It was impure.

It did not live.

It came.

The swirling entropy of ancient places. Given form and manifested in the worlds between life and death, dark and light, heat and cold, fire and flame.

The blackness behind the stars, the shadow behind the light.

The hollow cold in distant places and muttered dreams of immortality.

It was old.

It was tired.

It didn't want to do this anymore. It wanted to sleep. It wanted to be at peace.

The nightmare was old, and it wanted it to be over.

It had lived forever, and did not want to do so again.

It had fought its war.

It had won and in doing so had lost.

It was _tired_.

It wanted to die.

It wanted to die the true death.

Please.

It asked.

Make it end.

It begged.

You hold the Key to Oblivion.

It pleaded.

Its destruction opens the Door.

It wept.

We are the Chosen of Death. The Dead and the Maker of the Dead.

Silence.


	3. SHIGGY SHIGGY PART UNO

-The Fields of Cadia. M43.258-

"Foolish Loyalists Dogs!" The King of Darkness, the Lord of Despair, The Black Traitor and First Captain of Favored, Fallen Son. Abbadon, the Despoiler. Stalking the battlefield like a rolling shadow, corruption oozed from his vile armor, and about the Talon of Horus, a palpable black rot dripped from its gleaming bronze. Drach'Nyan growled, the chained Daemon of long ages past humbled, but never tame.

"To think such pitiful scum could hope to withstand the might of Chaos." Sibilant words hissed from between pointed teeth. It was not through strength alone that Abbadon drew together the fallen legions. Guile, charm, wit and dread promises were the currency of the traitor legions as much as strength of arms was. "This world is lost, this system fallen, and yet you resist the rule of the Eight pointed brand." The Dark Lord of Chaos eyes the shambled frames of the broken men before him. Gathered from the carrion battlefields of the dead- the still living were dragged free and thrown together. Shambling, bloody, and weary with despair, these once proud Guardsmen of the Imperium are but hollow shadows of what they stood for. They wept, they moaned, they prayed, it was all for naught. Their death is nigh, their hope is forfeit.

"I commend you though," Abbadon stood before them, a ruined Russ-tank beneath him its hull smashed in by some daemonic beast. "Your stubbornness would do your Corpse God proud. But he is but that, a corpse, rotting on a gilded throne." A guardsman, one who still held a spark within him rose up at this blasphemy, only to have the iron fist of a Black Legionnaire close about his skull and spill his brains across the ashen ground. "He cannot save you. He could never have saved you, He has _damned_ you with his lies, he has condemned you _to suffer me._ " Abbadon growled, sword and claw raised above him, in the distance, the warhorn of a corrupted titan bellows across the ashen wastes.

"Black Legion!" Abbadon bellows. "Ready the tribunal!" A roar of approval erupts from the mass of Cultists and Traitor marines, bolters, axes, blades and fists are raised skywards, and a rippling chant goes up amongst assembled, a single word bellowed from over a thousand throats:

" ** _JUDGE! JUDGE! JUDGE! JUDGE!_** "

From behind the warmaster, commotion is heard, the sound of grinding metal heavy boots makes its way steadily forwards, and past the crowned prince of Chaos. It is an abomination of chains and spikes, what may have once been an Arbite of the Imperium, now corrupted and turned to a darker purpose. Attached to its torso and back by cables of flesh and copper, it drags eight coffins with slavering, fanged maws where the lid should be. Stumbling along on stilted legs, it makes its way to the center of the gathered. "Be… Judged…" It rasps, "…Chaos…"

"Ready the Trial, and bring forth the first Accused." Abbadon commands, waving the Talon of Horus, as a king would order a vassal.

Several Traitor Marines step forwards, and grab the fanged coffins; careful not to let their Ceramite encased fists stray near the bleeding orifice. With reverent precision they arrange the coffins so that all eight are dragged into position, mimicking the Eight Pointed Star of Chaos, the tainted once-Arbite at the center.

Stalking through the cornered rats that were the guardsmen, several burly cultists with flesh masks and iron cudgels manhandle eight men to the front, their fatigues are but rags and their armors stripped from them. They bully them forwards and force each of them to stand before a coffin, the maws gape wider and a hoarse wheezing can be heard, as if the parasite things can smell the fresh meat about to be offered to them.

"Warriors of Chaos!" Abbadon shouts, his voice effortlessly rolling and reaching the ears of the faithful. "Before us stands the Guilty! Their crimes? Resistance! Heresy! Weakness!" The crowd roars in anger, in spite, in glee for the blood-soaked spectacle presented before them. "For these crimes there can be only one punishment!" He raises Drach'Nyan, and with mock solemnity, he aims it towards the assembled.

 ** _"_** ** _DEATH!"_**

"And so it shall be!" He turns from atop his perch, with an evil grin he stares down at the raging, weeping, and screaming guardsmen, each with a Legionary at the back, holding them in place. "Do the guilty have any last words?" He cocks an ear towards them, and drinks in their pleas.

"Tribunal! You may begin!"

Hearing the voice of its master, the Tainted once Arbite shudders, black ichor pumping through its veins and into the cables and arteries that are fused to its flesh, running down into the living coffins that are its burden. From within the black jaws and behind the fangs, something roils and twists- slithers as it awakens.

All at once, from the first coffin, a long, sinuous arm snaps out at the guardsmen held prisoner before it, and wraps around his neck. With a strangled scream he is ripped away from the Marine that held hem and dragged down into the coffin, maw opening wider, fangs drawing apart to welcome him in- and as his shoulders are pulled past, they can wait no longer and the snap closed. And they open. And they close again. Again. Again.

The screams take a full minute to be extinguished. Though the body twitches every time the maw opens, and more is pulled in.

Upon seeing the fate that awaits them, the guardsmen struggle harder, their pleas and wails, their screams, it only serves to excite the tainted audience. One by one, the coffins open for each of them.

As the last guardsmen is consumed, drawn into the black maw of whatever hell beast Abbadon has summoned to possess this once lawman, Abbadon raises the Talon for silence. "Such are the first of many! Bring forth the next Eight Accused!"

Once again, the Cultists grab and tear at the slowly dwindling guardsmen that have fallen prey to the hands of Chaos, and the next eight are pushed forth, each tattered, each weary, but each are different in uniform, such as there are many differing regiments stationed on this fortress world.

"Warriors of Chaos!" Abbadon shouts once more, "Before us stands the Guilty! Their crimes? Resistance! Heresy! And of course: Weakness!" he grins, he sneer, never tiring of those words. "For these crimes there can be only one punishment!" He raises Drach'Nyan, again. "What is that punishment?"

 ** _"_** ** _DEATH!"_**

He glowers, staring down at the victims, amused to find them staring back. "Do the guilty parties have any last words?"

"Aye!" One of them shouts, the red bandana tied about his head further dyed with his own gore. "My last words are Bravery!" Yells the Catachan.

"And mine is Discipline!" Cries the Mordian.

"Resolve!" Cries the Cadian.

"Faith!" Cries the Talaran.

"Death." Nods the Kriegsman.

"Duty!" Cries the Steel Legionary.

"Comradary!" Cries the Vostroyian.

"And Sacrifice!" Snaps the Valhalan. "Always Sacrifice."

"Pretty words from feeble mouths," Abbadon remains unimpressed, and with a wave towards the Tribunal, he commands it to begin.

It does not.

It cannot. It shakes, it trembles.

For from high on above, parting the choked sky, from a single brilliant ray of golden light that pierces down from heavens and sets upon the gathered and them alone, there comes a voice.

 _"_ _ **WITH YOUR POWERS COMBINED…**_ _"_


	4. AN:

**AN/: Regarding sporadic updates.**

 **EY BOYZ LEMME HOLLA ATCHUU DOE.**

 **I GOTZ SUM WORDZ TO BE SPREDDEN ALL OVA DIS PAGE ANZ YOUZ GON LISTEN A'IGHT?**

Long story short: I got most of this story already written down and backed up on three separate USB drives, Email cloud, and even a damn kindle. Because I am paranoid like that and shit.

Updating all these is a bitch, but worth it because when shit crashes stuff gets lost. This is reason one for why I am such a slow-ass lazy fuckboi. Reason two is that I like making my stuff sound good in my head, so I go over it several hundred times before posting it on here.

Thats' why shit is so damn slow.

That is all. Be on the lookout for chapter splurges and other semi related chapters. Also I will be re uploading several previous chapters because they are way too damned short and error ridden.

As always: Shiggy Diggy Leme eat that ass.


	5. Act III: Respite

He slept for two years.

Captain Evius woke on the same day that Titan aligned with three of its sister moons and pointed at the Eye of Terror.

The symbolism was not lost on the Grand Masters.

His return had caused a great deal of commotion within the chapter, the mission on Cor had been shrouded in mystery, the happenings upon that stormy world were uncertain.

It was hoped that Captain Evius could dispel the quandaries and rumors that flitted about Titan. Ilitarus had been stoic in his questioning. He was adamant in his silence. He would not speak until His captain woke. The apothecaries' were uncertain that Evius ever would wake.

Their concern was misplaced, as Evius now once again stalked the halls of Titan with the Brother Champion Ilitarus at his side. "It is good to see you among us, Brother."

"Aye, It is good to see you as well, brother." Evius clasped the hand of his Champion firmly. He wore a simple robe, as his Terminator armor was still in the stages of being removed from the reliquary. "What news is there," Evius asked, "I am sure that you were not idle while I was indisposed."

Ilitarus fell into stride next to Evius as they marched through the training chambers of titan, passing mind scrubbed serfs and acolytes along with the occasional servitor carting munitions or wargear behind it.

"The Inquisition has been working closely with the Seventh. The events on Cor hold great interest for them." Ilitarus stated.

"Was the threat not destroyed? Why would the leavings of a dread and disposed of being be of any interest?" Evius replied his features narrowing. To think that they had lost so much in futility…

"There have been no further sightings, that is all we can say." Ilitarus would not lie that he himself has such thoughts. "But in anecdotal reports of those who had survived among the seventh, they spoke of it like a soul-sucking wraith. Also the power of it to overcome our wards are of heated topic."

"I dread to imagine any more of those vile creatures could exist…" Evius exhaled, not at all pleased to hear that Cor still yet haunted them.

"As do I," Ilitarus agreed. "But the Grand Master has taken a personal stake in such claims."

"How so?"

"The _Inquisition_ has taken an increased interest in the matters, I should say." His voice dripped with contempt, and Evius could only agree. "They dig into matters best left buried." The politics of the Imperium were distant concerns for most Space marine chapters, but for the Grey Knights they were not granted such a luxury. To them the inner turmoil of the Imperial bureaucracy was but yet another enemy they must best.

"We are not to be the judge of that, unfortunately." Ilitarus glanced up as a robed scribe approached, bowing in respect before speaking, hands clasped against her chest in the symbol of the Aquilla. "My lords." She spoke; even without his armor Evius and Ilitarus towered over the mortal. "Grand Master Covan Leorac summons you." She bowed again. "He awaits you in the Arcanum."

"I will accompany you, brother." Ilitarus nodded to the scribe, and she dismissed herself from their presence, scurrying off to complete another menial yet vital task to the smooth running of the Grey Knights. "I believe I know what this meeting is about, and they'd be eager to hear my side of it at long last."

…

The Arcanum was not far from where they stood. Through the gilded hallways they made their journey, and arrived at the high steepled chamber, thousands upon thousands of shelves stretching upwards with collected knowledge of the grey knights stored within the. Saints stared down from the painted ceiling, and pillars of silver lined the walls, each one engraved with the names of heroes.

It was no surprise that Corvan asked to meet them here, it was a silent mausoleum devoted to knowledge and lore. It was only fitting that they spoke about an event shrouded in mystery while in such a place. Let the walls hear their whispers, and record them for further ages. For it was not only texts that were stored within the Arcanum, but memory and words as well, stored in the psychic resonance filters embedded within the walls themselves. Each filter in the Arcanum held the recordings of over several thousand sacred verses or silent sermons whispers of fallen Knights and the malevolent damnations of captured Daemons.

As they filtered through the bookcases and scroll retainers, they reached the sacred place where this moot was supposed to be held. A grand round table was placed amidst the forest of scrolls in a clearing of sorts. There they found the grey bearded but wry and vigorous Corvan Leorac, Grand Master of the Seventh Brotherhood. Clad in his masterfully built Terminator armor, his black eyes peered down at a scroll that he had pulled from the shelf before him. He placed it aside as he heard Evius and Ilitarus approach. He was not the only individual worthy of Note, however.

It was a surprise to Evius to see the Lord Inquisitor again, Shieda had changed much since he last saw her, but to Ilitarus who had the disgruntled pleasure of working with the lofty Inquisitor, she was no different from yesterday.

Her body had been burned irreparably, and many of her organs had ruptured. She was more automata then human in her current state, fitted with masterwork augmetics and skinned in flexible metal plates inlayed with polished chrome. In place of her face she wore mouthless mask of silver, piercing blue mechanical eyes sat under the mask, regarding their entrance.

"Inquisitor," Ilitarus bowed his head respectfully, something Evius did not expect him to do two years ago. "Grand Master." He greeted Towering figure before them. Bedecked in ancient terminator armor.

"It is a fine omen indeed to see you walking amongst the living once more, Evius." Steeping down from the podium, Corvan clasped the brother captains' arm in a warriors greeting. The two had known each other for long years, even before the former captain; Darig Tegvar, was lost to them.

"You should know that I am not so easily bested, I was merely in need a brief respite from the myriads of hell you are so fond of accosting me with." Evius grinned.

"Hah! One of these days I will be rid you!" Corvan snorted in mirth. "I assume your familiar with the Lord Inquisitor?" Formality returned, and he stepped back. Evius turned his attention to the mechanical woman.

"The last time I saw you, you were holding the reaper in a choke-hold with one hand, and blasting away at that fiend with the other."

"It's in the job description, believe it or not." He was surprised how fluidly she spoke and moved, the vox caster that served as her vocal cords were of high quality, she almost sounded human. "If anything I was more peeved at the loss of my Armor." She was referring to her sculpted battle plate, given to her by the Sororitas. "It was gifted it by the Order of the Martyred lady for saving the Living Saint Ilo from Eldar Rangers and their damned Farseer." She shook her head, her eyes glittering with a mechanical light from underneath her voluminous hood.

"Armor can be reforged and repaired, men and woman with true will cannot be so easily remade." Ilitarus reminded her, again; the cordiality between the two was surprising to Evius.

"He is right," Corvan said. "Which brings us to you and the actions on Cor."

"You have waited long enough, I suppose." Evius gestured to Ilitarus, "If you would, Brother."

It was a long, arduous meeting. The Inquisitor had already informed her masters and the Knights of the overall occurrences of the dark mission of Cor, and her timely intervention at the last moment before her world was shrouded in fire. Its two primary participants, Ilitarus and Evius, enlightened them of the true nature of events that they partook in that bloodstained storeroom near the bottom of the city.

"…I was not the first to encounter its ilk. The Interceptor Squad and strike brothers suffered its lamentations long before my Terminators and I. It struck from a position of ambush, and eliminated them before the Strike Squad and Ilitarus could arrive. I was still far behind, returning to formation with the Terminator brothers I had at my disposal."

"I can explain this next part." Sheida interrupted, though not rudely. "We had just lost Ilitarus to a pit fall it would seem, the ground gave way underneath him, he fell into the under regions of the space port." She said, glancing over at the Marine in question, whose dour look told all that was needed about what he thought of those circumstances.

"Blasted, shoddy, backwater engineering…" He scowled derisively. "Blasted, Mutant Cultists…"

"The strike team proceeded forward under Adaphals command, when we approached the storeroom it attacked. It was not thorough; it must have sensed you're coming and retreated back into the storeroom where you therein encountered it." Sheida glanced towards Evius.

"Indeed I did. I saw the slaughter it imposed upon the Strike Squad, and I pressed on, and met the thing in combat with my Brothers. It had learned to destroy our Bolters and ranged weaponry, or drag us into locations where we could not make use of them for fear of hitting our own."

"Such would point to prior experiences with the Grey Knights," The inquisitor opined.

"No," Ilitarus shook his head. "We would have had records of such engagements. It was just simply that adaptable and intelligent. It had fought Astartes before, however. The Crimson Fists speak ill of a silver wraith and the Vermilion Lords hold Chapter legends of an immortal, silver tormentor armed with shield and sword."

"It played our weaknesses against us, the cramped confines of the storeroom played hell with our Terminator plate. Eventually only I remained."

"Then what happened, how did you survive?" Corvan asked.

"I nearly didn't survive, for it was my better, in almost every martial regard it had me outmatched. Location, agility, adaptability, weaponry…" Evius flew back to darker memories. "My plate and my strength of will were my salvation. I could endure it longer than my brothers could. Despite being a vacuum of the warp it was still somehow vulnerable to my psychic powers. I drew it in, let it cut into me and held it firm. It was quick, and its blade mighty but I was stronger then it had anticipated. I held its blade and channeled a wrought of lightning through its weapon and into it. Fried it."

Corvan grinned fiercely at this. "When skill fails, cunning gives voice."

"Much to my chagrin it did not end there." Evius continued. "As my back was turned, gathering my vigor so that I might still stand tall even with a grievous wound, it returned, and attacked me. I was off balance and weary. Desperation fueled my defiance and I held it at bay for a measure of passes."

"It was here that I almost failed in my duty as a Brother Champion," Ilitarus stepped forwards. "I made for my Captains side even before I heard him engaged with the enemy, but the lower wells of the port were narrow and winding. I wasted much time following false routes in my efforts to leave, I also was forced to fight my way through a mutant colony that offered up dark prayers to the warp god of Plague." He too felt the presence of the old memories of Cor, the twisting hallways of corpse excrement and discarded waste. "Upon my arrival I found my charge beset and wounded, I intervened."

Evius recalled that glorious moment of intervention, Ilitarus' nemesis blade knocking aside the Eaters', his challenge and rebuke of the enemy.

"It was hard fought." It was no understatement, Ilitarus had dueled and challenged many chaotic and warp powered enemies of man and had bested all of them. Recounting all of those desperate lock of blades, this was easily the most unpleasant. His psychic powers were dampened by his exposure to its presence for the duration of the fight. He felt as if his soul were trying to be wrenched from his body. "My skills were hampered and the battle was taxing, its speed was its most notable asset, with the way it wielded its sword and sorcery it left little room for me to counter maneuver. It took time, but I bested it before too long."

"It did not stay dead, just as before." Evius rumbled.

"It emerged from the mire of strange energies that suffused the blade it came from. It pulled itself out of the floor like it was rising from water or birthing fluids. Flames roiled off its battered plate, but did not burn it, it used them somehow- empowered itself with some form of corruption." Ilitarus could still recall the purple, dire flames with clarity, the pulse of a dead heart spreading their vile influence to twisted, gnarled limbs

"It attacked." Evius, said. "It hit us with some form of flames that battered the psyche. I was overwhelmed and blacked out."

"I shielded you, took the brunt of it with my armor, your helmet was shattered earlier in your fight."

"And for that I am ever thankful."

"Continue." Bid Corvan with a curt wave.

"It did little to damage our armor but I think the point of it was to stun us, to make us lose touch of reality by the pain inflicted on our minds by the dark flames. Evius was disabled and I was stunned briefly. It made use of that momentary lapse, caught me across the chest with a downward slash, almost took my head with it."

"How did you defeat it while keeping it from your captain?"

"I couldn't defeat it. Not this time. It was stronger, but reckless." He tapped an ugly burn scar that striped down his neck from his left ear. "Its cuts burned like acid, and its blows were like blocking a thunder hammer. I could only resist it for so long before it started overwhelming me."

"I vaguely recall that." Evius glanced over to his friend. "It was moving like a Banshee Exarch, dancing more then dodging, it didn't bother with blocking your swipes."

"Aye, I had to modify my technique to counter that, leave myself more open then I like."

"Regardless, I managed to discover one of its secrets by this point, It used the blade as a catalyst of some sorts, an idol of reincarnation I perceived it to be. I made my way towards it with the intention of destroying it, and robbing it of the power to be reborn."

"But you couldn't have known for sure." Sheida added.

"Of course not, but it was the only thing I could have done at that time."

"Acceptable, continue."

"I managed to make it to the totem, the inquisitor witnessed this when she arrived, but you did not understand the intricacies of its destruction."

"What do you mean?"

"It is usually unwise to break a Chaos totem, doing so usually releases the dark energies or daemons stored within. One most ritually cleanse the taint of the object before destroying it. If that is not possible, it must be locked away.

"When I resonated- when my soul touched the blade- I was sucked in. The blade was like a null beacon, but instead of being rebuffed or destroyed, I found at the center of a blade, a great conflagration of energy. Energy that had no beginning or end."

"This… energy, it was what sustained the beast?" Sheida asked.

"I am unsure. It burned differently then any warp based power I have seen. I would have been more careful in my cleansing, but I felt the intrusion of another soul within the blade, the Beast."

"It broke away from combat with me, I stalled it for a moment, but as you touched the relic it aborted combat and went for you."

"I was there at this point, managed to chance a few hits, but I had to stop. Its body vanished when it 'resonated' with the relic."

"I did combat with it within the blade. Its soul against mine. I felt its cold touch rake claws against me, but my will was the stronger. I had little time, and took the energy into me and smothered it. Not before being nearly overwhelmed, though. It redoubled its efforts to shatter me, and it nearly did before I pulled myself back into my body, and crushed the blade."

"Which caused it to explode." Sheida added, and Evius was then all to aware of her metal frame.

"They often do that." He tried not to sound to conscious of this fact in the face of her metallic nature.

"Would have appreciated a warning," Shieda sighed, trailing mechanical fingers over her mask. "I worked hard for my old body, you know."

"Don't besmirch the gifts of the Mechanicus with physical vanity, lady inquisitor." Ilitarus chided.

"The explosion stilled the warp within the confines of the space port, nearly drove me to insanity and ruptured your psychic hood, Evius. We believe that was what rendered you comatose, the psychic feedback."

"I see," He grimaced. "But for two years?"

"It is unprecedented, but not unexpected. The malign fiend you were facing was an aberration of all known warp beings. Its presence and its totem must have had an unusual affect on you."

"The abilities of this fiend remind me of those of the Culexus." The Inquisitor mentioned.

"No," Ilitarus snapped. "The Blacksouls of that temple- the untouchables as well, they are immune to the sorcery of the warp, and its corruptions. Their souls are barred to the denizens of that plain."

"How was it any different?"

"It…" Evius struggled for words; the nature of the fiend truly puzzled them. "It was like a container, a vortex. It had a presence in the warp, but it was separate- different. Its presence in the immatrium was not native, not natural. Despite their abhorrence, blacksouls and their ilk are still native to the warp; they are naturally immune to it and cannot affect or be affected in turn. They nullify the warp around them. The Being we faced could actively disrupted the warp- drew it in and destroyed it like a black hole does to light. While similar in affect to a blacksoul, it is still different."

"I still don't see the difference." Sheida, blissful in her ignorance did not know the full disgust of feeling its soul like Evius had, and he is quick to dismiss further conversation of it. "It matters not, it is dead."

"That still begs the question of its origins." Said Corvan, bringing the others back to the point of discussion. "There may be more of them."

"There are rumors of it being brought into our galaxy by the actions of the Dark Angels." Added Ilitarus.

"That bodes poorly for any attempt of discovering its origins." Sheida groans. "I know few ways to commit suicide faster than nosing around in the secrets of that damned chapter."

"Perhaps for an inquisitor but a Grey Knight is not so easily cowed by the Dark Angels petulance and hoarding of secrets." Ilitarus argues, "I have had several dealings with them in the past, and have crossed blades with them once even," The Champion snorts, "Foolish sergeant tried to cut me down from behind over a stupid suit of pre-heresy armor." He shook his head. "I cut the squad down until the captain remained, he was far more willing to listen to reason after that…" It was not secret to the Grey Knights that the Dark Angels practiced witch hunts for Rouge marines, but it was not know as to why they were so emphatic about it.

"It would be in our best interests to not provoke a founding legion," Minded Corvan, and Ilitarus made no effort to reply in the contrary.

"In any regards, the knowledge and power of this beast are things best left to the dark. It was a horrid thing, and Man is better off without its witchery."

"That is not for you to decide, Evius-" Sheida begins but is quickly cut off as Evius fixes her with a sharp glare.

"It is fully for me to decide, for I have seen it." Evius interrupts, arms folded across his chest as he stares down the Inquisitor. "Its ways are twisted and damning. They destroy the souls of the fallen to fuel its powers, and if it were to fall to the dread hands of traitors it is unspeakable what they might do. So I say No. We shall leave this secret to rot away forever." His words are final as he turns to the grand master, "With your permission I would return to my duties as Brother Captain."

Corvan nods in acquiesce, "You are dismissed, Captain Evius. Though I doubt this is the last time we shall speak of Cor. Though for the time being your are released to your duties, go, your brotherhood awaits."

…

"You seemed familiar with the Inquisitor." Evius and Ilitarus walked alongside each other through the stone halls of Titan. The torch bearing walls engraved with the historic and ancient deeds of the chapter. Their path took them through several reliquaries where the weapons and armor of old heroes were on display for the chapter to admire and gain inspiration from. Several neophytes genuflected before a statue of the emperor in the center. Both Captain and Champion paused and made the sign of the Aquila before they moved on.

"She has been the liaison between the Seventh and the Ordos Malleus for some time now. She has proven herself both trustworthy and valiant." Ilitarus continued the conversation as they moved out of ears reach and back into the hallway.

"It is more then that, there are rarely Inquisitors that are allowed to be reside in her position for more then a few months."

"She's been waiting for you to awaken so she could fulfill her duties. You object?"

"It is just that she is as nosey as when we first met." Evius snorted derisively. "The damned woman can hardly go a minutes mark without a berth of questions. Had I not known any better I would think she was interrogating us."

"It grows on you,"

They passed the moment in companionable silence, walking in no particular direction before they wandered into the training hall; it was mostly empty, as was the majority of titan these days. The constant fight against chaos had never seen more brothers away from Titan as in these dark times. Never one to spoil an opportunity for a duel, Ilitarus took up a training blade, and tossed it to his Captain before retrieving one for himself.

Stepping into the mock arena, both Marines took up a battle ready stance before flying at each other in a flurry of blows meant to test their endurance and skill rather than immediate victory.

"It will be good to go into battle under your leadership once again, Evius." Ilitarus kept up the rapport between them even as he countered his Captains strikes with comparative ease, responding to each thrust with a skillful riposte.

"I pray that I have not grown soft in absentia." Evius replied, his attempts at attack felt sluggish and clumsy in the face of the champion's defense.

"A battered old warhorse like you?" Ilitarus laughed, stepping back and pausing, a grin cracking across his face, "When you die they will forge walls of adamantium out of your bones."

"I'd prefer it to be a new blade, something to strike back with rather then hide behind."

…

The call for battle came only a few days later. It was no surprise either, in this dark millennium where Daemons run rampant, the Grey Knights were tasked to the point of breaking. They already have had made sacrifices in letting minor Daemonic incursions go un-pursued in favor greater threats. There had been more than one case in which lone Knights were dispatched to deal with threats that would have called for several squads- but such was the dark days they now fought and died in.

The Seventh were ready in short order and welcomed their Captain back with much celebration, Evius was pleased to find that all things were in place for the coming journey, as they had already been mustering for deployment when Evius woke. To the Seventh it was a joyous omen for the battle to come, and it was hard to disagree. As Evius murmured the rites of rearmament, his Terminator armor locking into place around him, the Techmarines anointing his wargear with holy oils and scriptures of cleansing. "The Emperor and the Omnisaia protect you, Captain." The Techmarine stepped away, servo arm retracting as he made the symbol of the cog. "Your armor stands ready at optimal efficiency."

He cast his gaze over the assembled seventh brotherhood. He saw many old faces with new scars, and many new faces without. "Thank you Techmarine, may He watch over you as well." Evius smiled and made his own silent checks as he fell into stride with Ilitarus, such was the natural place for the Champion to be- at his Captains side.

"It seems you were not idle while I was gone." He noted, and Ilitarus nodded, "The losses at Cor wore heavily on us." He gestured. "We still have not fully recovered, but we have made progress." He told Evius of the fifteen brothers that had joined their ranks. Evius was disheartened to learn that Justicar Tivian was among those who were lost on Cor. The brotherhood had relied heavily on his wisdom.

Adaphal had lived, but he could only greet them from the armored form of a Dreadnaught so that he may impart his knowledge and might to his brotherhood even beyond the veil of death. Evius spied his hulking frame at the rear of the Hanger, he was silent and still within his tomb as he was loaded onto the thunderhawk transport alongside many other stacks of equipment and wargear. He would not wake until they were at the brink of battle, and that was still several days away. "How long until we ship out?" Evius asked. "It would seem that we have everything in order."

"We are ready now, my Captain. We need only conformation from the Rogue Trader vessel _Destiny's' Dawn_ that she is ready to receive us and we shall depart."

Evius turned at this, features incredulous. "Rogue Trader?" He questioned.

"Yes, I know." Ilitarus sighed. "It galls me as well, but the chapter has no other ships capable of servicing a force this size at the moment, all Strike Cruisers and battle barges are currently either deployed or are being serviced for sever battle damage. The inquisition has requisitioned this craft from a House that has close ties to the Ordos Malleus. You need not worry about the politics, we shall not be charged with meeting the captain of this ship."

Evius shook his head, the audacity of the situation was almost comical, the Grey Knights, Daemon Hunter supreme and chosen of the Emperor to banish Chaos in all its Myriad forms- was unable to transport one of its brotherhoods. "Emperor help me, I preferred it when I was asleep."


	6. Act IV: No Respite

Below a ship, a planet burned. It was once a kingly Hive planet made only for the housing of a peaceful and content populace that did not want for more than what they had. Its only sin was its location. It was in a troubled and isolated sector without much in the ways of defense. Its PDF was lax and its SDF was merely symbolic.

Such was why it now burned. It did not burn do to lax security measures- things that could not fight back with meaning, for if it had them it would not have burned for it would not have been targeted. The scum that assaulted this world were of Chaos, and all those who follow Chaos are ultimately cowards. Strong worlds, worlds that have been built and housed by strong men and women, do not fall under these depravations because they are Strong.

Chaos cannot stand against the strength of mankind- such has been true for time immemorial. So it is so that Chaos bleeds the weak and frail, those who cannot defend themselves- be it not for lack of will, though. The Weak will fight when cornered, and will win because of it for Chaos abhors bravery from the innocent.

Such is why this world still burned. Bravery from the Weak and desperate. Small conflicts still raged on the surface below, bands of noble souls awaiting deliverance in the form of the Emperors will fired with antiquated rifle and cut with ceremonial blade- and are struck down with contempt on the faces of monstrous Daemons and blood-hungry Traitor Marines.

They say the Emperor does not listen to Mans pleas.

On this day that will be proven wrong.

On The Throne of Terra, The Emperor looks to the stars, and sees the planet of Oluriti.

And Enacts His Decree of Justice.

…

Evius reviewed the strike force granted to him:

Ten Terminators, marking two squads.

Fifteen Interceptors, marking three squads.

Ten Purgation Specialists, marking two squads.

Twenty Strike Marines, making four squads.

Four Dreadnaughts.

One Brotherhood Champion.

One Brother Captain.

This was the full strength of the Seventh brotherhood, and it was lacking. Such was why he continued to review further.

Three Thunderhawks On loan from the Second Brotherhood, making a full squadron.

One Epistolary on loan from the Third Brotherhood.

Sixty Two marines against an entire Chaos warband in its primal, vicious ascendancy under the Blood Gods red gaze. Sixty-Two marines without air support- for the hive spires were close and confined. Aside from the landing, there would be no further use of the Thunderhawks, once boots hit pavement; they were entirely without support.

Sixty-two marines.

That is a force to conquer an entire system.

Evius had command of the entire brotherhood for the first time in over a half century. He remembered when it was such common practice, for him to sally forth at the behest of his Lord in order to smite the Heretic and crush the Daemon. Those were far better days in present comparison, when the Galaxy was not yet so inundated with the threat of Chaos.

He looked out across the hanger from his position of vantage upon one of the catwalks lining the hanger bay. He looked down on the gleaming silver metal that was arrayed before him, and felt pride in his chest, singing through his veins upon the twin beat of his hearts. His voice rumbled out over them.

 _"_ _The situation is dire indeed, Brothers."_ He stood before the Seventh in full battle regalia. His terminator armor gleamed like crystal, and the gold engravings of Angels and scripture seemed to glow with a holy light. His force sword was drawn and energies coursed across its surface as he made ready his warriors. _"As you know- the Arch Fiend Cranto of the despicable World Eaters has plagued the Imperium for years uncountable. His warbands have crippled over a thousand worlds, spoiling the earth with tainted blood so no crops may grow, ravaging the women so no families will rise, and smashing the gears of machines so no work may be done in His name."_ He could feel the rage, the odium of those assembled beside the Grey Knight thunderhawks that sat in patient respite in the hanger of the Rouge Traders ship.

 _"_ _It is on this day that this fiends pillaging ends. We have cornered this beast and his Daemon flock at great cost. A world will die so that we may smite him. Remember the name of Oluriti, Brothers, for it is this worlds sacrifice that makes it so that our blades will feast on his neck."_ He raised his blade and aimed it at the thunderhawks. _"We tarry no longer! Board your transports and make ready for glorious combat!"_

The shouts of affirmation were deafening.

…

The Hanger doors opened. The biting wind of depressurization cut through as the high atmosphere of the blood drenched planet below met that of the stale hanger. For a moment there is only the deep rumble of power plants. And then the din is alighted to the screaming engines of Grey thunderhawks. Bursting from the starboard hanger bay of _Destinies Dawn_ as the Grey Knights begin their vengeful descent. There can be no drop pod assault for the planet below is a Hive world of unparalleled sprawl. Its high spires are endless and the hard, unyielding terrain suited to drop pods is unavailable for fear of crashing through flimsy decking on approach. So it is the venerable thunderhawk that will once again act as the valiant steed on which the valorous knights will ride.

Almost at once- when the thunderhawks punch into the lower atmosphere, black clouds smash into the air around the descending transports- flak cannons light up the crimson night with bursting black plumes of shrapnel that pings against the armored hull of the airborne transports- but it is not the only weapon at the disposal of the heretics: screaming upwards with contrails of flame, skyfire rockets blitz the squadron.

At once the transports sweep away, bursts of flares and chafe erupting from concealed vent ports as they dip and weave through the sky. It is only thanks to the prescient nature of the pilots and long years of skill that allow the thunderhawks to close the distance, and tear into the close confines of the spires where rockets and missiles cannot easily pursue.

" _Status_!" Evius shouts with a tense command.

" _Thunderhawk two has received damage my captain, but is still operational. Thunderhawk three however has been forced to return to Destinies Dawn, its machine spirits have been gravely wounded by Heretic missile fire."_ Acknowledging this news with a click of his vox, Evius returns to himself. The thrum of the engines are steady beneath him save for the slight variations of pitch as the pilot weaves through the forest of spires in search of their quarry, they knew its position thanks to the accurate prognostication of this event, so it made this task only that of quick reaction and a single beheading strike at the neck of a fiend long due to die. _"Prepare for combat, Brothers. We do His work this day."_

...

If one were to ask Cranto what he considered himself to be, they would receive a simple answer:

He would say, that he is in all honesty a simple, humble and devout Religious man.

Cranto loved to pray and Praise his god. He would often find himself singing praise to the aspects of his chosen deity in the midst of his duty. He found himself doing that work now, even.

Cranto praised the blood that rand down his heavy frame.

He praised the Axe that growled red rage in his fist.

He praised the steaming muzzle of his bolt gun and praised the screams of the uniformed chaff that begged for mercy.

He praised, and praised, and praised with every loping stride and swing of his chain axe. Heads rolled and he sung the praises of Khorn. "Blood and Skulls!" He would savagely roar, gripping a singularly fine specimen of skull and ramming it down on the single left horn of his helm. "Blood and Skulls!" He slammed a gauntleted fist down on the small frame of some mortal infant, so young that it could not even fight back. "Praise! _Praise_! **_PRAISE_**!" So much was his joy in this zealous, divine act that he did not see that the winds had changed, and watch as silver-grey thunderhawks screamed through the Hive spires overhead.

…

The plaza was once a sacred place of open worship. The single large statue of the Emperor standing in its center, arms outstretched to the humble masses that would genuflect before it on the holy day, was now defaced and desecrated. Around its marred and slandered surface, piled at its base were the mashed up bodies of the citizens that came to pray on the day the sky was rent asunder, and cracked red drop pods fell on the populace below. With the traitor marines, came fiends from beyond the veil of reality.

Bloodletters. The fury of Khorn. Savage warrior beasts with hunched back and muscled frames of red stony skin, elongated heads with burning yellow eyes, searching hungrily with a sinuous barbed tongue that could taste the onset of another battle. In their clawed hands they held warpforged hellblades- crystal red contrivances that glowed in the light of wars fire.

These fiends, these butcher beasts of the Blood God- they stalked these once humble streets in search of skulls and blood to sacrifice to their dread God. They did not care where it came from so long as it bled. The weak and infirm, the young and the vital, the strong and the powerful, it mattered not so long as they were slaughtered in the name of Khorn.

They could _feel_ the Knights before they even made landfall. An abhorrent smooth purity of spirit in which all rage slid off of like water on polished glass. Untouchable and uncontainable, these golden souls were forever beyond the red rage of Khorn. They knew these beings- the Mortal warriors of the Anathema- sent forth to end their reap.

They smelled- they tasted the coming of these worthy opponents. Warriors were coming, and they promised worthy challenge- beings that would not run in fear or sob in buts of pleading- begging for the continuation of their pitiable lives. They would now know the blade of a fellow master of the battlefield and the Bloodletters rejoiced, howling to the sky, hellblades raised and the trumpet of Slaughter sounded.

To the Grey Knights themselves, the Daemons would never be worthy. Chaos Daemons: wretched things that slaughtered indiscriminately without care or reason. They followed vile creeds and practiced dark deeds, they were the sole reason why the Imperium was in constant turmoil, they are the cancer that rots away at reality, only the scalpel that was man, could remove them.

They clashed red fists against the haft of blades, long tongues lolled out of slavering long fanged maws that could never close, howls of rage and ecstasy melded together as one as a trio of silver transports rolled like thunder through the spires of the hive- the first unit of Knights descending with brutal grace.

Heavy bolters roared to life under the wings of the three thunderhawks, mass reactive 1.00 caliber shells shuddered through a misted red air and tore apart the Daemons of the Warp. Flesh and blood and bone and warprusted metal burst alike under the punishing attentions of the Astartes vehicles. They did not slow down, they did not stop. The transports angled towards the drop zone from a horizontal approach vector, back ramps lowering as the engines kicked a tempest storm and shattered windows along the length of their approach- wingtips nearly carving into the hab-spires.

Evius felt his twin hearts beat faster as the sound of heavy bolters reached his ears. He let himself inhale the scent of daemon scum and savored the taste of his most hated enemy. Nodding in silent approval he affixed his helm and le the seals lock down- stifling the miasma of warp fiends. _"Five seconds to drop."_ He spoke over the vox to his brothers, already the other squads clicked green- their drop sites confirmed and cleared of warp-filth. He stared up out of the open ramp and saw the silver streaks of Thunderhawks returning to orbit, black clouds and tracer fire spiraling up after them. He returned his attention downward as the seconds counted to zero.

He jumped.

For a moment there was that insidious and familiar sense of nothing before he hit the plaza at nearly one-hundred miles per hour. Stone broke under his feet as he lurched forwards, fighting against kinetic force and momentum, his armor automatically sensing the disproportional amount of G's being forced onto his frame and activating the rambolts in his boots- shooting adamantium spikes straight into the ground and anchoring him into place but not before twin six foot trenches in the solid stonework of the plaza were erected behind his haphazard landing.

He had a moments respite before the maddening visage of a Daemon of Khorn howled its red rage and broke upon his Terminator plate.

The red fiend charged without fear- The damage imposed upon them by a raking lance of bolter fire but rain to their war maddened minds- even as the super sonic shockwave blasted over the plaza, tumbling the gangly limbed creatures head over heels- some even stumbling off the plaza ledge itself. Some, but never all.

Evius smashed aside the lesser Daemon of Khorn with a single slug of his armored fist, red gore spattering over his aegis armor as its elongated skull came apart in a shower of ruined bone fragments and cranial matter. His Terminator brothers were beside him, their own landings just as high speed and brutal, but none were off course- they had practiced such high speed thunderhawk insertions before and a live combat run was little different.

Evius stormed forwards into the fray, boots pulping felled bodies of cultists, daemons and fallen Civilians alike beneath their weight. " _Come, daemon scum!"_ He cried, blade raised and bolter preforming a recalibration test that took only a micro second- sanctified bolt rounds were primed for close combat detonation. " _I have slept for two years! Allow me to hone my skill once more on your serpent hides!"_ His brothers stormed forwards beside him, Stormbolters ejecting shells at a blistering rate, the front rank of Bloodletters rippled with explosions as loud as the armored stampede of terminators that roared just as savagely as both sides met in a bone-grinding crunch.

Bloodletters broke upon the hammer of humanity like a gory red rain. Smashed aside and torn to shreds, Terminators bellowed hateful words laced with psychic resonance- litanies of banishment on their lips, halberds, hammers and nemesis blades glittering with the light of their Soul. Hellion screams were soon drowned out by the righteous call of humanity as the Terminator Knights surged forth into the gore soaked Plaza like a silver storm. It was without contest- the result was decided when the first gleaming grey Thunderhawk shattered the heavens with its descent into the fray below. Daemons fell and Knights stood in their place.

Standing silent and indomitable amongst the carnage, Evius kicked over a ruined bloodletters corpse, watching it steam and fry as its soul was called back to the screaming hell realm of the warp. " _Drop zone clear,"_ He called out, _"Bring in the rest and prepare for force deployment."_ He looked back as the wave of wind from two thunderhawks rushed overhead, ramps falling as they slowed to a slow hover- Out from the bowls of the mighty transports glittering silver knights dropped to the bloodied plaza below.

 _"_ _Proceed with force deployment, Brothers, we make for the Traitor Lord. Proceed to your designated approach paths and make your way to his location. The Brother Epistolary shall update you if he moves…"_

Flicking the slick ichor of daemons from his Blade Evius nodded as Ilitarus took his place beside him, Force sword yet to be consecrated by glorious combat this day.

…

The plan was simple.

Two groups of Grey knights, one target. Each squad would deploy as close to the target from opposite ends, and converge on the Traitor lord. An equal mix of Terminators, Purgation Specialists, Interceptors, Strike marines and dreadnaughts would be allotted. Nothing could stop them.

Already the second group under the command of the Epistolary had landed and was making fast progress through the Hive, cutting through swaths of Daemon kind with an overwhelming blend of psychic and martial might only known to the Grey Knights.

Evius stormed through the dark bloodied jungle that was the primary Hive of Oluriti. His brothers in purpose and conviction followed suit, eyes leering out from behind blue lenses. Oluriti was a world formerly of metal and rockcrete, as now it was a world of bone and gristle, its populace slaughtered in a day and night of gore-bringing not seen since the Cholarcaust that followed the corrupted Keeler comet from the Eye of Terror. Its alleys were narrow and constricting, its pathways lined with passages and stairs that led to higher or lower levels. These were once streets overflowing with human life in its divine and perfectly diverse form. Couples bickered, children laughed shop owners cursed and workers toiled. It once reeked of humanity and its flowing throngs.

No longer, that was all dead, lost in the rain of blood that dripped from higher levels- down through drainage pipes and cracks in the decking. A sinister force seemed to continuously exhale from the city. A tremble seemed to wash over the assembled Knights, and Evius reaffirmed his grip on his humming cobalt blade.

Underlying the reality around them the warp was in obvious turmoil. But it only now made itself clear just how much pain assailed it. Rubble shuddered and small debris shifted, sometimes alighting into the air.

 _"_ _Brothers guard your minds."_ Evius commanded his own attention fixed low onto the ground, it was as if the floor was melting, color and consistency straining as reality meshed with unreality.

It was then, unseen to them that the sky of Oluriti tore open.

It was not a subtle thing that rippled open across the gulf of space above the light of the hive city but a sheer cracking, a sundering of epic proportions- as if great and ethereal hands had punched through the wall of sanity that shields man from madness, gripped at it and began to pull that barrier apart. The sky once a dull red now ran crimson and then purple, a black and brown ugly bruise ran center of this ulcerous cancer and within that stygian black expanse did beasts crawl along its surface.

 _"_ _By the blood of the Throne!"_ One Knight shouts in revulsion, and his sentiment is readily shared by those assembled as a sick- viscous and vile presence touched all of their minds, younger Brothers falling to one knee and clawing at their helmets as if that alone will remove the sickly filth that tore at their barriers. Aegis runes blazed hot white as the warp rippled across them, and Evius felt his Twin hearts beat all the more faster for it. He locked gazes with Ilitarus and nodded. They both knew that they had little time.

 _+This planet ruined, it shall not rest in the material world for much longer.+_ The Epistolary mutters over the vox, voice strained. _+We would do well to hurry the execution of this vile force, the Daemon incursion on this planet is weakening the fabric between warp and reality.+_

 _"_ _Onwards to the Traitor Lord. There is no time to be lost!"_ Evius readied his blade, and called his brothers to his side. _"For the Emperor!"_


	7. Act V: Decapitation

Evius smashed aside the flimsy construction of the barricade, the wooden paneling breaking apart as he reached out and crushed the skull of the Heretic that though to cover behind it. Blood ran down his frame in rivulets, and more than some hissed and spat as it made contact with the warding runes layered across his armor.

 _"We are making good time, Brothers, be swift and vengeful!"_ he called over the Vox as he pulped another Heretic cultist clad in rags and scavenged armor with bolter fire. " _Thunderhawks- Be ready for immediate extraction on my command at the given locations."_

 _+Captain!+_ The Epistolary shouted over the vox, the sound of heavy combat echoed over his communication, " _Epistolary, how do you fare?"_ Evius asked, already an inkling of forewarning dripped through his veins.

+ _The Traitor Lord moves- he has sensed our presence I gander.+_

 _"_ _Where does he flee? Give me an intercept at once."_ Another Berserker Marine- bolter and axe this one had- swung madly and without care for self- so lost was he in the agonizing wrath of Khorns madness. A blistering blue blade intercepted its course from Evius' flank- Ilitarus was there- inseparable from his Captains side since the days of Cor. The blade cut through the long haft of the Axe as if it were flimsy plasteel paneling and continued to cut through the head of the Traitor marine behind it.

 _+You forget the ways of Khorns children, captain,+_ The Epistolary spoke with a slight laugh despite the situation. _+He is not running away from us, he is running towards us- you in particular.+_

" _Ah,"_ Evius nodded, slightly humbled, but smiling just the same. _"We should have announced our presence when we landed, if that is the case."_

…

Cranto was a mass of stolen adamantium armor and boiling mechanical rage. Warp stuff bled off of him in globules of corrupted black oily ichor. Augmetics and pistons throbbed and wheezed with every movement. Daemonhide horns erupted from a shaven bulbous skull of steel and carbon. Lengths of barbed ruby veins flowed underneath slaps of ceramite armor welded by madmen priests of the Dark mechanicus. In each hand the traitor Lord now held a defiantly growling chainaxe baptized in battle.

Sputtering from his mouth was more faithful prayer. Humble blessings. Self-deprecating impeachments. Grandiose Sermons.

These were all hollow, though. Despite the passion he bled into his prayer he knew that he could only truly reach the Blood Gods ears through the slaughter of the weak and wrong and strong and mighty. Though he prayed with the fervor of a word bearer apostle and knew every word to the psalms of the pilgrim and had slaughtered his old warmaster- a Daemon Prince and former Captain no less- for 'lack of conviction' he knew that these word-prayers were not the same as 'gore-prayer.' Khorn existed only for the flowing of blood and claiming of glory, words were for the lesser gods and their subtlety- such _useless_ subtlety!

Khorn had heard him, however- Khorn had heard his word-prayer and saw what it desired and gave him a blessing because of his devotion to gore-prayer. Mad red eyes- eyes of a daemon saw through the pathetic steel walls- good walls though- blood stained walls carved with the marks of Khorn- and he _saw._

In the distance- witch lights _PSYKER_ Lights, awful, cowardly witches with warp powers and cowardly skulls. He raged- the false-nails clawed at his skull, his _worthy_ skull. He raged he pained and slathered the stuff of madness, axes roaring in sympathetic pain.

Wait. Closer- more lights, little lights bright and sparkly and filled with- Praises be –blood. Silver lights, silver warriors with Blades and –Praises be –skulls.

Astartes Skulls.

He opened one of his five maws and-

…

Screaming, no, roaring. The wild call to battle by a savage beast. Evius steadied himself- not because of fear but because the entire Hive seemed to shake.

"What in the name of the Throne is that manner of beast?" A strike marine scowled, helmet lost to a pack of fleshhounds- his Halbred was stained with their blood in return for such an affront.

" _A dead one- I promise you that."_ A brother interceptor coolly replied.

 _"_ _Curb your arrogance- that is the Warlord, no doubt."_ Stated a Terminator, readying his Thunder hammer in preparation for the coming storm.

 _"_ _Move forwards, there is a market of sorts just ahead, we must reach it before he, or else we will not have room to maneuver in these narrow streets."_ Evius commanded, and the Grey Knights fell in line behind him, the booming echoes of the Dreadnaughts to their rear rolling off the Hive buildings.

…

The Grand Market of Oluriti's primary hive was a grandiose venture that attracted farmers and merchantmen from the entire system over. It was a vast complex that occupied the heart of the Primary hive spires very core. It spread nearly a mile across and a great distant ceiling dome was painted with the murals of Merchant saints and benedictions pleasing to the eye. Great stands and stalls made up the grand marketplace, wooden and metal contrivances painted in bright and gaudy colors in order to attract the attention of the passing browser.

All of it was now smashed and broken.

At the center of the market place, he stood upon a grandiose pedestal. What once housed a statue of the master of mankind- forced to the side, collapsed and crushing many stands and vending stations, corpses bloodied its features- now played host to an atrocity that survived the ancient heresy.

A titan in shattered marine plate, what might have once been a tech-marine of the ancient World Eaters before the wrath of Khorn filled his veins, roared in approval as Evius and his brothers filtered out into the market square, weapons prepared and Bolters primed.

Without armor he still would have stood several heads taller than Evius did now in his Terminator Aegis plate, but with the amalgamation of stolen scraps of marine plate- looted off the corpses of slain foes- he stood a full nine feet tall. His massive frame rippled with Daemon flesh and upon is back sat two warped servo arms that snapped and clacked with serrated claws, red light from a fiendish mask of flesh and metal stared hungrily at the Grey Knights. A cluster of mouths gaped stupidly at the world from the malformed chest plate of the Insane Berserker marine.

This was Cranto- the Melded.

Over a thousand worlds were to his tally- and this would be the last.

From behind the Corrupted Chaos Lord clambered up five score blood hungry berserkers, chain axes and power weapons glittering and snarling just as much as their gore soaked masters. Daemons flittered about the air and across the walls, Hellforged blades and warp sharpened teeth gnashing and twisting.

Evius saw all of this, and lowered his blade. He stepped forward, nodding as if in approval.

He started to laugh.

" _Captain?"_ One marine spoke, looking up at his commander in confused amusement.

" _This_ …" Evius began, gesturing with his blade at the hellish foes arrayed before them. " _This is far from acceptable… This is not nearly enough."_

He again stepped forwards, leaving his brothers behind as he raised his arms as if in incredulity, _"For two years I have slept without dream- without distraction. For two years I have waited for my reawakening so that I may ply my trade once more to your blighted hides- and this is what you answer with?"_

Evius laughed- a single sharp bark against the roaring- defiant frenzy before him. He turns to his brothers, arms spread wide, searching for the answer for such a paltry few slaughter fiends arrayed before him. _"Brothers! You are the Seventh Brotherhood! I am your Brother Captain Returned! Show me how you have dealt with fiends such as these in my absentia!"_

Virtue answered Rage, war erupted across the Market.

…

Blood and steel, hatred and strength. All melded together in a swirling melee. Across a once grand market stalls were smashed aside and rotting goods and trinkets were strewn across the metal decking of the hive- only to be smashed under foot by silver and red giants in ancient plate.

A rain of blood from a murdered populace rained down from cracks in the high ceiling. Ruddy crimson light speckled off this hells rain as two mortal foes danced upon a bed of corpses. Guts and gore was trampled and squished underfoot as combatants engaged in savage solo duels.

To the left, a squad of Strike marines were blitzed by ancient world eater berserkers- pale red light glowed from their helms burning eye lenses and they roared in primal fury, chain axes high and roaring with daemonic delight at the promises of visceral bloodshed- the flesh of Loyalists so near, blocked only by flimsy ceramite. Halberds spun out and denied the first rank of blood mad warriors- a Justicar crying out the song of perpetual banishment as he dueled with a Khornate Champion, force sword glittering beautifully as it arced under and parried the savage blows of his opponent. Slightly ahead and right: lightning fast interceptors armed with twin falchions cut a bloody haze through a troop of Bloodletters, glinting like spun silk catching the momentary illumination of lightning as it storms beyond a window as the hoarfrost of warptravel encrusted their plate.

Just behind him a squad of terminators smashed through the seemingly endless hordes of cultists, autogun rounds plinking uselessly off of relic terminator plate. Daemon Hammers, Nemesis Swords and Halberds carved through the blood-crusted plate of Traitor Marines.

But at the center of the market- Kings dueled.

The Martial skill of the Khornate Warlord was something to behold. A kill-crazy techpriest from the days of the great crusade with snapping servo arms and whip like mechendrites and roaring chainaxes that drooled black ichor- splattering the caustic filth across the battlefield with every wild swing.

Evius and Ilitarus dueled this monster both at once, fending away blows in tandem. Evius pressured the machine-daemon fusion with herculean blows that sparked against corrupted plate yet refused to cut past the first layer of the things stolen armor- flesh-like growth rapidly sewing shut any lasting wounds.

Ilitarus parried lightning fast blow from the things many axes as it turned to face the champion- its servo arms swirling around like living things to snap and claw at Evius even with its backed turned.

Captain Evius struggled to find an opening in its defenses- constantly fighting to block or avoid its fanged axes- one came high an another swung low, brutal cutting implements that had feasted on the flesh of daemons and man alike in equal measure.

He would have to get rid of them. " _Ilitarus!"_ He shouted over the Vox to his Champion at the back of the thing.

 _+Yes- Captain!+_ Came the reply from his Brother Champion, a whirlwind of madly glinting silver against viper-like mechendrites and crushing mechanical arms. + _Slightly- busy at the moment!+_ He grunted.

" _I have an idea on how we can best this brute, but I need you hold its full attention for a moment."_

+ _Why do I have the feeling that I am not going to like this?+_

 _"_ _Because you most certainly will not like it, now listen-"_ Quickly explaining his plan to his champion- whose concern deepened by the second- Evius parried another wild flurry of axe swings, " _Can you do it?"_ He asked.

 _+Aye, Captain, on your word.+_

Evius readied for the transition, at the same time he swatted another overhead strike away, and ducked back from follow up blow from the second chainaxe- its ichor splattering and hissing against his armor.

" _Now!"_ He shouted, and he ducked left around the Brute- even as it made to follow him Ilitarus dove under a Mechendrite and raked his force sword along its flank- cutting into its armor and drawing the brutes ire like nothing else- its many mouths along its corroded front howled in rage and it leapt at the Dancing champion like a hound on a gristly bone.

Now Evius faced the back of the beast- its servo arms clicked and hissed and mechendrites snaked along like patient vipers- surveying the Grey Knight Captain before them. Evius grunted in clear disgust, he let the odium fuel him as he let the power of the warp sink into his bones and grant him strength and endurance.

" _This is going to hurt."_ He admitted, and charged forwards.

He didn't try to block the mechendrites as they scoured his armor with lamprey mouths, he focused on the servo arms that twisted with unnatural grace, his blade and fist striking out in tandem- he gripped one around arm and held it firmly in place while his blade knocked the other aside, hitting with enough force to stun the daemonicly infused appendage- this gave him the time he needed.

Reversing his grip on is sword with a quick flick of the wrist he jammed it with as much force as he could muster into the flesh like generator on the back of the corrupted traitor marine, sparks and blood erupted as one as the Beast thing howled in rage, Mechendrites and servo arm swinging wildly at Ilitarus now as rage overcame its pain and it managed to land a scathing cut across the pauldron of the Champion marine, knocking him back and giving it room to spin on its heel and face Evius once again.

" _Brother Librarian! Now!"_ Evius shouted racking his bolter he unloaded a full magazine into the chest of the Beast- watching it howl as the sanctified bolts exploded across its surface but doing little else aside from staggering it back.

From across the market, came the sound of thunder- and as its harbinger lightning followed in bright coruscating patterns. The searing bolts homed in on the back of the Daemon marine- striking The Captains sword and covering it in warp lightning that slammed down into the beast who played host to the Nemesis sword- Howling in bitter agony the Beast fell to its knees- body erupting on the inside as lightning scoured its hulking frame- it did not suffer for long.

Ilitarus leapt to its front and as it was wracked with lightning He let his blade fall and sever its head in a single strike. Evius retrieved his blade- hot to the touch as a cry of agony rose up across the blood stained market- Daemons raged as the air of control that their master held over them suddenly vanished and the battle soon turned into a route as the hulking frames of Dreadnaughts smashed into the Traitors.

Ilitarus looked out across this and then back up to Ilitarus. " _That move of yours was risky- It depended on you getting close enough to impale the beast with your blade."_

Evius shook his head. _"When you are in Tactical Dreadnaught Armor, few things are risky."_ He said as he thumped his plate, ignoring the gouges the Mechendrite leach-things left on its surface.

" _What possessed you to go to such lengths for this 'plan' of yours? We would have been able to overwhelm it together soon enough."_

 _"_ _Aye, but there is nothing better than humiliating the scions of Khorn through the use of the Warp- they despise such things and any slight I can put against them is worth any potential risk. And this 'Plan' of mine worked for me on Cor, and has proven its worth to me once again."_

Evius turned away from his champion, casting his augmented gaze over the battlefield gifted to them by this bloodied hive. Red armored fiends lay in the repose of death across the field of corpses that they themselves had created. Ash fires from decomposing daemons left an acrid stench in the air and the smell of cordite was insufferably palpable even with a helmet. He saw his Brothers stalk the corpse field; Halberds and blades searching for those that still lived among the dead. Some were wounded, but to his satisfaction all still stood firm.

…

Evius found his brothers in dialogue. A young Marine stood over the butchered corpses of a family within a ruined food stand- their last act to seek shelter among familiar faces wasted as the blood scent of the Traitors rooted them out in due time.

" _If we had arrived sooner, would we have been able to save these people?"_

 _"_ _Where Daemons walk, corruption spreads, and for those who are corrupted there can be no saving."_ A veteran Brother, an Interceptor, answered his solemn question.

 _"_ _Not for those who are pure of heart and hold to the God Emperor, though. Chaos can find no hold on them, is that not true for the Sisters Sororitas?"_

 _"_ _Common folk do not hold to the Word of the Emperor as firmly as they of the Ecclesiarchy."_

 _"_ _Some may not, but not all. This was a cardinal world after all; did they not hold open prayer? How could the ways of chaos hold sway over a people so pious?"_

Evius opened his mouth to halt such talk; it had no place on a mission. But found himself instead staring at the ground before him.

It was a fragment of the stained glass dome that covered the market place.

He looked up.

" _CONTACT! DAEMONS!"_ A cry rang out, but not from Evius.

All at once, bolter fire erupted throughout the ranks of the grey knights, all of it directed upwards into the twisting mutable forms of furies and manta shaped screamers- all of them rained down from newly formed cracks in the dome- just beyond its gilded surface dark shapes fluttered about, pressing against the mural to reach the souls that resided just under it.

" _Brothers! Close ranks and focus fire! Do not let them single you out!"_ Evius shouted, at once Ilitarus was at his side, standing shoulder to shoulder with his captain as his own storm bolter roared- its dual barrels glowing white hot from a constant beat of bolter rounds- he ejected another spent a magazine and replaced it with another stacked mag of consecrated shells.

The Screamers fell upon them- fanged maws and razor wings glistening in the red light of a blood soaked sun. Tzeentchian Flamers fell from the roof- arms flailing and seizures wracking their body as gouts of warpfire erupted from their tubular arms in spasmodic conflagrations, wretched squig-like beasts with purple flesh scampered along the walls, squealing and mewling as they vomited up glittering balls of warp energy that they spat at the grey knights in selfish jealousy- eyeless faces twisting and shifting into the visages of those damned to wander the warp.

They were being overwhelmed. That much was certain to Evius as he snapped off another precision burst from his stormbolter- watching with no small measure of satisfaction as a squealing screamer fell to the ground- its death ensured as a strike marine impaled it with his Halbred.

Burning crystal blue soul empowered rounds scoured the skies above them clean as purgation squads moved in, Psilencers, Psycannons and Incinerators working overtime to keep up with the deluge of targets that fell upon them. Something shifted in the attacking Daemons and the shrieked as they swarmed down around the Purgation specialists, engulfing them in Daemon flesh. " _Brothers! To the Aid of Purgation squads!"_ Evius shouted, redirecting his fire in an effort to scour the besieged marines clean of their besiegers.

Several other bolter storms made themselves known, raking fire across the endangered marines but nearly not as many as their should have been. Evius snapped his eyes over the field of battle in order so see what withheld his Brothers wrath and felt a cold chill run through him- scenes just like what he saw now played out before him- swarms of Screamers falling through the roof and setting upon isolated squads like a hive of Jagwasps stirred to action by the bumbling of some unfortunate child.

 _"_ _ **As you command. Captain.**_ _"_

There were those who payed no heed to the cawing Daemons, striding through battle like arrogant demigods. Adaphal was among these, and he made his presence known on the field of battle once more. " ** _To me, my brothers._** _"_ The rolling sonorous boom of his Vox carried over the field of battle, the Corpse Marine walked. The heavy frame of the Dreadnaught was impervious to the biting teeth and scourge claws of the Daemons- but they were very much aware of just how deadly he was to them.

Spiritual power radiated off the frame of Mighty Adaphal, his armored bulk seem to glow as if the Emperor himself had taken notice of the Seventh brotherhood- Casting His gaze in their direction- his servants bolstered by the knowing that the Master of Mankind had taken notice.

Around him came the mighty form of the Sevenths Dreadnaughts, stomping after their venerable brother- stormbolters chattering, heavy flamers unleashing coruscating death upon the enemy that swamped them in hateful numbers and assault cannons spun and spat annihilating streams of death. _"Brothers! Rally to the Ancients!"_ Evius shouted, stumbling over a mound of corpses nearly as deep as he was Huge.

 _"_ _Confirmed!"  
"Acknowledged"_

 _"_ _Aye!"_

The strained reply of Justicars filtered through to him, Evius knew this wasn't an engagement that could be won through strength of arms alone- there were simply too many of the bestial things to account for. But the armored might of the Sevenths Dreadnaughts were gifting them the respite they needed- he just had to lead his brothers to their side- where the halo of purity they exuded would offer them protection- a position of power.

" _Forwards Brothers! By the Captains words!"_ Ilitarus shouted, blade raised and gleaming with power- he grabbed a struggling Knight by his gorgot and hauled him to his feet. _"This is not where we fall!"_

The hacking wings of the Screamers and corrupted fire of flamers clawed at Evius with every heavy step- bolt rounds thudded off and none missed for the living seething mass of Daemons that surrounded him was far too thick- he felt them tear at his armor, but that was of no concern. His plate would hold up to this assault for eons- the brothers around him in Powered armor that lacked the dutiful protection of his Terminator Chassis were those he fought for.

" _Push forwards!"_ Evius commanded, his blade hacking through the leathery hide of some changeling fiend. He looked to Ilitarus, fearing the worst as he heard the Champion grunt with strain- he watched the Champion of the Seventh dart his blade back and forth- jerking left and right to avoid the warp-sharp wings of the manta Daemons and returning every cut with one of his own. But there was simply too many targets for him to possibly handle alone- he was losing to a battle of a thousand cuts where he could only return so many.

He could see the protecting aura of the sanctified Dreadnaughts just ahead; already his Brothers gathered under their protection, their armored bulk nearly painful to look as such was their momentous resolve. He could see the thirds Epistolary staff thrust forwards and words of banishment on his lips as the crystalline psychic hood over his head flared with the proximity of the Daemons. Lightning and fire spat from his fingertips, blowing away the purple beasts and crazed flamers that thought to breach their momentary sanctuary.

There was no more time to waste, Evius grabbed Ilitarus bodily, dropping his own sword to do so and with no small amount of indignation, Evius bodily hurled the Champion forwards into the fiery ring of holy psychic power. Ilitarus landed on a bed of corpses, blood splattering against his plate as he staggered to his feet. He made to shout for his brothers to aid the captain but just as he opened his mouth to do so, Evius powered through the mass of dark wings and gelatinous flamers.

" _We make our stand brothers!"_ His voice thundered across the battlefield, and the brotherhood thundered back in reply.

…

Ilitarus looked down at a Daemon of Tzeentch, and expected a Daemon of Nurgle to stare back at any given moment.

The squealing purple beast of tentacles and narrow limbs was trapped beneath his armored boot. He had caught it as it tried to flee with the rest of its cowardly ilk that had broke upon the combined strength of the Seventh brotherhood- bolstered by the psychic power of the thirds Epistolary.

The psychically consecrated ground that had been given to them by the powers of the sevenths dreadnaughts had burnt a hole in the mass of corpses and the majority of the Seventh now stood upon this mound of ashes, tending to the wounded.

The market was now a sea of the dead. Corpse rot hung in the air as bodies began to melt together- physical form losing meaning as daemon flesh washed over everything, turning the once proud market into an abattoir unlike any other.

 _"_ _No more tricks? Changeling thing?"_ Ilitarus pondered aloud to the trapped beast. " _A shame, my blade still hungers."_ He sighed and decided to put an end to this charade. He began to chant the catechism of banishment as he let his psychic power flow into his nemesis blade- at once the adamantium spike illuminated with the power of his soul and he drove it into the daemon thing at his feet. It squealed and writhed but he had it securely pinned. He watched as it burst into flame, ashes and the scent of sulfur were all that remained of its passing.

His execution done, Ilitarus sheathed his sword and returned to his brothers. He spied a pair looking over the decaying corpse of a Screamer.

 _"_ _Daemons of Tzeentch?"_ One of the Interceptors snapped, twin falchions glittering. He kicked the head of one of the Changeling daemons and sent the twisted thing into a pit of flame. _"Pets of the Blood God never march with the those of the Changer of Ways."_

 _"_ _It is true, they do not."_ Evius remarked in agreement as he stomped over, his own task complete. He studied closer the corrupted city around them, and found it lacking in the usual adornments of Khorns lackeys.

 _"_ _Captain…"_ Illitarus began as he made his way to his captains' side _. "I believe not all is as it seems…"_

 _"_ _You would be correct to assume so."_ Evius gestured around them. _"Since when do followers of the Blood God not raise effigies? Or slaughter pits? This raid of theirs was all too driven."_

 _"_ _Perhaps they were not here on whimsy."_ Ilitarus was on edge; it was true, something was not right. _"They may be searching for something-"_

 _"_ _That Psychic Rupture!"_ Evius snapped. _"When we first arrived- the sky lit_ _up and this planet was plunged into a false night! I thought it at first a simple affect of the Daemons but it must have been something greater! A Dark ritual of sorts!"_

 _"_ _Daemons of Khorn do not work in grandiose ritual."_

 _"_ _No, but those of the Lord of Change do."_ Evius scowled down at the feathered corpse, watching as it turned to ash. _"Bring me the Epistolary, We must find the true source of this."_ Evius looked around now at last at the freshly lain carnage about a once vibrant market. Daemons overlaid marines' overlaid Daemons overlaid innocents. Mangled limbs twisted together in deathly embraces- and all about the lawn of corpses were the guts, and filth of the dead and the dying. His eyes lingered on those fallen under his command. Silver giants- gods among men, still paying in blood for the Arch Traitor Horus' treachery. " _Fetch the Apothecary as well. We must take the chapters due."_


	8. Act VI: Deception

It took time they didn't have to filter through the blood-crazed whispers, but it was there. A cool cobalt malevolence that spoke in sibilant lies and half-truths, it was the voices of the deepest warp.

Raw warp power was channeled in these words and through it came a hidden meaning that they dared not latch onto for fear of catching the attention of this dark demiurge.

"It is there, in the grand chapel in the central hive." Spoke the Librarian, Psychic hood flaring just behind him. Blood leaked from his eyes and lips. "Whatever sequesters its strength within that now tainted place is strong. Fearfully strong."

"You have done well, Brother, we shall take over from here. Rest so you may fulfill your duties."

Evius left the Thunderhawk, leaving the Third Brotherhoods Librarian to gather his strength for the coming storm. He met Ilitarus, waiting for him just outside, sword at his hip and helm upon his head. _"Do we have the location?"_ He asked, and Evius nodded. "We have it. We also have little time."

 _"_ _Let us not waste any more of it then."_

…

Three Thunderhawks screamed through a rain of blood as they dove between Hive spires that rolled with unnatural mutation as they closed the distance between them and the center Hive.

Mountains of metal sprouted unnatural growths and pale arms dangled uselessly from beneath bridges Eyes watched their passage and Evius could feel the greater intelligence that sat behind these lidless horrors. They were being watched, and the source of this madness knew their coming.

 _"_ _Ready yourselves for battle, Knights of the Emperor._ " He spoke over the Vox. " _We approach our target."_ A chorus of Ayes answered him back, but not nearly as many as he wished.

Only half the brotherhood was available to him in this venture, and because of it he could only take the finest. The Third Brotherhoods Epistolary commanded the rest in purging the surrounding Hives of Daemons and Traitors alike, with their champion removed the blood gods lackeys now fought amongst themselves for control of the warband, even though Tzeenchian Daemons and Grey Knights alike preyed upon them.

 _"Ramps down in five seconds."_ The pilot of the lead thundehawk announced. Evius unclipped his harness as he made his way towards the rear of the thunderhawk, his Terminator clad brothers besides him. " _Mark_." The bolts that held the ramp of the thunderhwak in place slid back, hydraulics hissing as the slap of metal fell away. The open sky greeted them, the ugly bruise on reality growing ever so slightly above But below did the golden gilt of a chapels skylight stare up at them, marble carven saints on ivory wings with hands stretched up to the sky as if in pleading with the Emperor for salvation.

Their prayers were answered as Evius, Ilitarus and five Terminator brothers threw themselves into the open air.

The beauteous painted glass dome shattered from a quick burst of bolter fire, the multicolored rain of glass plinked against Evius' terminator armor. He braced as the tile floor of the chapel rushed up to greet him, and with a thunderous clang did cracks split throughout the floor as he impacted with the force of a falling meteorite.

Already as he recovered was he assaulted by several dozen autoguns, the pathetic weapons plinking off his terminator bulk as he rose to such a pathetic challenge. His terminator Brothers were the first to reply, bolter round smashing through the fleshy puppets of dark gods with the subtly of hammer blows.

They did combat with the fallen men and women of Oluriti- those that could not withstand the whispers of daemonkind- now clad in filthy robes and bearing horrendous scars. Skin peeled back to reveal muscle and fat, sigils carved upon them and prayers to the ruinous powers across their mortal frames. They fought with a prevailing darkness that clouded even the Grey Knights enhanced senses, sorcerous powers bled from the corrupted chapel.

Dark power rolled behind restraints put in place to hide this defiled place. Gilded golden statues of saints were defaced with crude chaos marking, and tapestries smeared with shit. He used this defacement to fuel his anger, and he swung up his arm and blasted several cultists with a burst of Storm Bolter fire, the rest shrieked and ducked behind pews and pillars. They would find no refuge their- as was proven when warplight illuminated the chapel for a moment, and from tears in reality did silver warriors burst free.

Interceptors, twin nemesis blades flashing in the reflected light of the hell-realm, they fell upon the craven cowards with the fury of ancients, flesh was reduced to steaming ribbons and metal was rent in half- as those who tried to forestall retribution with a hastily swung rifle were shown their error.

In a matter of seconds, the desecrated holy grounds were cleared of the vermin, all which remained of their presence being their rotting corpses.

" _Report_ ," Commanded Evius, the Terminators and interceptors in the immediate vicinity quickly confirming their presence, while the remaining thunderhawks dismounted their cargo outside. In total they numbered only two interceptor squads, one terminator squad, two strike marine squads a single purgation squad and Dreadnaught Adaphal, the later making himself known smashing through the barred doors of the Chapel, tearing them open with twinned power claws crackling with psychic might. The two Strike marine squads and single Purgation squad followed close behind.

 _"_ _Form up and clear through, we must find the source in the heart of this place."_

 _"_ _I can feel it coming from below. Like waves cast by a stone dropped in a still pool…"_ One interceptor muttered aloud. _"This will not be easy."_

 _"_ _It never is."_ Ilitarus echoed in kind. _"Yet have faith, The Captain and the Emperor shall guide us through."_

…

It took only a cursory examination to find the stairs at the center of the chapel underneath a false floor. They were wide enough to accept His terminator bulk, but only in single file could the heavy armored Terminator marines of the Grey Knights descend in short order, the power armored Strike Marines, Interceptors and Purgation Specialists behind them stood three abreast, it was only with great effort however that Adaphal could wedge his way through the cramped confines of the stairwell, massive mechanical shoulders grinding away lichen encrusted stone from the walls.

It was with the constant departing echoes- the thud of their tread through the wayward citadel that accompanied them as they made haste to the dark heart of the chapel proper. Brothers muttered prayers to the emperor- asking that the father of all mankind watch over them and witnesses this battle in his name, and prayed for him to grant them the strength necessary to purge the filth from this once holy place.

The descended and reality bent around them. Mimicking walls spat corrupted prayers back onto the grey knights, words made real and given weight- the unholy blandishments hissed against their armor as fairy fiends flittered about overhead. Flesh replaced stone and their boots tread across the faces of the lost and damned- they stood before a door of bone. " _We do his work."_ Evius pushed open the doors.

The inner sanctum was a nightmare made real. From a thousand different surfaces eyes bulged sightlessly out of pulsating daemon flesh. Insect daemon things wormed their way through the floor- a corrupted mass of meat and screaming maws that howled a trapped agony in tribute to an uncaring god. It was the faces though, the faces of the still living hive nobility stitched together by the needles of madmen and stretched over the imperial Aquila that sat above the pulpit just opposite of them. And upon that raised platform- ethereal blue energies of psychic power raising it into the air- was the architect of this madness.

 _"_ _I welcome you pawns, I welcome you and give thanks to you; my toys."_

A Legionary of ancient days, blue and gold and a thousand different colors of the warp played across the armor of a son of a thousand- a child of Magnus the Red and Terrible. Two bale flames burned in the dark holes of his helmet- wreaths of psychic energy swirled about his bulk, the exhaust ports of his backpack replaced with the beating hearts of Daemons bested. In his hands he held a bladed staff of stygian nights- ruby gems of frozen blood of vanquished heroes coated its surface.

 _"_ _For eons I have been hounded by those narc-mad fools, their hunting packs have yipped in my ears for over a thousand worlds- the slaughtering of my cults a pity but unavoidable."_

The room convulsed- fell warp magics twisting its proportions and making it into something that it should not have been- twisting powers eddied around the bulwark of the Psychic Knights- their treads the only anchor holding them in reality. Walls turned into windows where hellish landscapes of Daemon worlds were projected, the sky roiled with a distant warpstorm and imps scampered through slivers cut into the matirum. 

_"_ _But that all ends today- and it is thanks to you that the final piece in my masters puzzle falls into fruition!"_ The Thousands Sons sorcerer raised his staff- the gleaming warp crystal that played the centerpiece detached from its bed and drifted through the air, propelled by fast winds and into the surreal storm that raged above in the distant ceiling. It crackled with energies- tearing itself apart as its power was dispersed about it, rips and flashes of thunderlight tore about the room in a mad display of power as some baleful eyes was drawn down from the war to bear witness to ta birth of something horrendous.

 _"_ _I have spun masterful webs that have caught the spoils of those slaughtered and the souls destined for Khorn to be wasted as fodder for His Daemons, instead they go to Great Tzeentch this day! This world will be ripped apart by the screaming souls of countless trillions upon billions! Already this world quakes as its strings snap and reality falters! I shall bring about the birth of a new Warp Rift! I have spun these webs across a thousand worlds- each one broken by the idiot World Eater King, but at last I have claimed his soul without a finger raised on my part- my thanks, Knights of the Corpse Fool!"_

Evius snarled. " _Brothers! Stop this madness!"_ Weapons raised they thundered forwards, silver glints of hope in a storm of lost souls. From tears in reality the servants of Tzeentch came to meet them- Screamers and flamers, Furies and Heralds, even the great Feathered Greater daemons came to the call of the Thousand Son Sorcerer.

 _"_ _You shall bear witness to this final harvest in which you shall play the closing act! Die by the Hand of The Unmaker!"_

 _"_ _This is the Emperors world Traitor! Throughout its cities man has lived in service to our Lord!"_ Evius banished the lies of the hateful Psykers tirade, Charging forwards and smashing aside a flight of daemons that thought to block his path- his blade carved through the flesh of daemons- his soulight banishing them back in arcs of psychic lightning.

 _"_ _You may have called carnage and rage to its people and slaughtered them to the last, and you may seek to distort the boundaries between real and mad,"_ He lashed out with stormbolter- the cascade of mass reactive shells struck down a twisting Herald as it summoned up the power of the warp in its million eyes. " _But know this:"_ Evius tore his blade free from the carcass of a daemon banished to dust, and levered it at the Ancient heretic. _"When we are finished with you and your corpse is but ash to lay before his alter, this world will be his once more."_

The Master Sorcerer barked a dry laugh, slamming the butt of his staff against his dias, the energies lowered it to the ground, his armors boots left trails of warpfire sigils upon the ground he tread. _"You shall be my first victim! Your brothers shall see you brought low by my hands, Captain."_

 _"_ _Many have promised the same,"_ Evius stalked forward, aware of the eyes of his brotherhood upon him. " _None have lived to boast their claim."_

 _"_ _Pah! Show me with Blade and Mind if you are so confidant, Grey Knight!"_

Evius took his blade in both hands, the psychically reactive nemesis baled came alive in his grip, a wrought of power spun through the adamantium length- sparks of lightning ran up and down its surface- purity and power radiated from its inner light.

The Thousand Son sorcerer stalked forward, flourishing his double bladed staff. Power alone radiated from his person, tainted blue and purple warplight rolled off his armor, corrupting the very air around him with a shadowy fire.

" _Death to the Unenlightened!"_

 _"_ _We are the Hammer!"_

They charged.


	9. Act VII: Ascension

In the time before the Heresy- and the Iron Heresy that came before Oluriti was a prosperous colony founded on the concepts of nobility. It traded well with the other founding colonies that made up its system, starships rocketing back and forth between the worlds as foodstuffs and technology were exchanged.

When the Iron Rebellion came about, Oluriti remained largely unscathed, and during the Age of Strife when the Eldar ripped open the warp and brought about the rise of a new chaos God, the world endured. During the great Crusade, Oluriti was peacefully brought back into the fold, the master of mankind bringing the light once more to Oluriti.

War and strife was rare on Oluriti, raiders and pirates mostly overlooked the small world. Perhaps it was this peace that brought the Melded and Unmaker to this world of expansive golden deserts and deep canyons. Perhaps this peace now shattered, was why this world burned in this dark millennium.

The Grey Knights fought to restore that peace, while the hive city burned the world itself could still be saved.

A squad of Strike marines thundered across the fleshy ground, halberds raised and war cries rolling bellowed from their helmets, the Justicar slammed his force sword through the pulpy mass of a flamer, its war wrought form squealed and dissolved but not before a plague of Screamers flitted about overhead and fell upon the Strike marines, razor wings gouging ceramite and severing limbs.

Interceptors blinked across the battleground, never staying in one place for more than an instant as they mulched daemons with lightning quick strikes- a perfectly timed wrought of lightning blasts among them- a harsh shriek from a Changer of Ways heralding another wrought of warp lightning. Before it can cast its baleful power a sundering fusillade of psychically charged bolts thunder out from a Purgation squad and nock back the feathered fiend.

As one Adaphal and the Terminators thunder through a pack of Flamers, their ethereal fire blistering off the fearsome combination of Dreadnaught armor variants. Hammers swung, Halberds scoured, and Adaphals mighty fists smashed.

Above them all a drama played out, silver and gold sparked against blue and yellow blade against staff- mind against mind.

Amidst the roiling warp, Captain Evius dueled with the ancient sorcerer of the Thousand Suns.

Evius scowled in contempt, deftly parrying the staff blade of the Thousand Sons sorcerer, the marks of the Rubric across his electric Blue armor spilling with the light of the warp as their own armors fought an internal struggle against the other -the corrupting dark of the warp against the purifying light of the Emperor.

" _I have mastered the waves of the Great Ocean, Daemons call me their master!"_ Blazing with warp-fire, the reverse of the staff met the flat of the brother Captains blade and was forced aside, an explosion of corrupted warfire and holy light mixed and destroyed each other- the Aegis plate of his armor thrummed with powerful warding runes, dissipating the tainted fire as it splashed over him.

" _I have thrown worlds into the depths of the warp! I have brought entire crusades to their knees! I have torn the flesh from Saints in my conquests!"_ Evius did not mince words with this heretic fiend- the fact that he had a mouth and tongue another blaspheme he was charged with correcting. He let his stormbolter erupt into violent action as he still gripped his blade; the quick burst of bolterfire slammed against the dark armor of the sorcerer in bursts of fire and tainted blood. Evius watched in disgust as tendrils sprouted from the wound and pulled the plate back into shape –the corruption of this marine was Huge.

Hissing in anger and pain the Sorcerer gripped his staff, trembling as power coursed through him. The ground melted away beneath him as the cracked marble blistered away from corruption- turning to flesh. Sparks and whips of lightning passing over his flesh-like armor, the corrupted marine stared down Evius with a maniacal loathing. " _I will not be brought low here by the lackeys of a rotting husk of a failed man! My lords plan will not be brought to ruin!"_ Insane power fluctuated off the form of the chaotic psyker marine, the runes on Evius's armor flared even brighter for it. He advanced against the whirlwind strikes of the Marines staff; his blade and armor match enough against the traitors martial skill- but for how much longer he did not know, something was growing inside the Thousands Son.

 _"_ _I stand at the cusp of Daemonhood, marine! The Power of the Master of Fates flows through me while you are given nothing!"_ Horrid energies empowered by sacrificed souls burn like a dark halo surrounding the Sorcerer. Putrid smoke whips from his body as his armor bulges and _rolls_ unnaturally, the corruption of the warp imposed upon this scion of Tzeentch is overwhelming and Evius does not know how much longer he can last against it. The world was a ruin of chaos already and their mission looked ever bleaker as it spread from this one demagogue.

The Unmaker flew backwards, drifting on the winds of the warp. He roared- thrusting his staff up into the air, warp power called down directly from the crystalized fragment of the warp directly into his staff. " _Perish in my flames!"_ Cried the Unmaker, directing the balefire through his staff, gathering into a singularity of corrupted power at its point, the burning purple flames licked at the air as the Unmaker thrust his bladestaff forwards and unleashed the roil. _"Burn in ignominy!"_

This was it.

Evius had no time, he had to end this creature of the warp- for it was no longer Astartes- and it must be done now. Gritting his teeth and letting the ambient warp energies soak into his frame Evius muttered the litanies of his chapter- calling on one of the holy powers bestowed to the Grey Knights. He clenched his fists around his sword and felt the power swell within him- a holy fire that blazed in his eyes- shining out through the lenses of his helm.

A black wave of flame swept out from the staff of the Unmaker, twisting, malformed, and jagged leafs of flame consumed the distance- And Evius unleashed the Power of his Chapters calling.

Evius was no Librarian. His powers was greater than that of the rank and file Grey Knight, and even some of the Chapters Captains- but the Librarians of the Grey Knights were nigh unassailable Psychic masters that Evius could not match.

A golden scourge of psychic power erupted from within Evius, and exploded outwards with all the tact of a Melta bomb. Great lances of purging light broke through his armor and shattered in an instant what could withstand a direct hit from a Leman Russes man cannon.

There was a reason why the Librarians held mastery over the warp. Any fool could throw around power and call it Psychic might. Those who do that are doomed to become prey to what they wield. To do so, and to remain secure in spirit, is to do so with balance, and subtlety. As Evius unleashed the totality of his Psychic force in one explosive burst a true master would focus it and bind it to a pinpoint annihilating beam.

It was dangerous, and reckless, what he was doing. And it was working.

The blast of black met the golden corona and faltered, wrapping around it and tapering off as it was beaten back by the shroud of purging light Evius had suffused himself in. It was breaking him apart- his armor came away in pieces, his tactica display screamed into his mind and he ignored it, a single step forward. And then another- and another.

As do the Librarians- he focused his shaking mind, his immense focus and will grabbing ahold of the floodgate of power he opened through his soul and crafted its shape- He would pierce through this deluge with a single mighty blow.

" _YOU! WILL! NOT!"_ Screamed the Heretic Marine, forcing even more power into his attack and Evius felt his defenses cracking in his mind- the levies channeling the brutal flow of warp energy into his desperate gamble crumbling against the focused assault of the Unmaker.

It was now or never. " _Emperor preserve me."_ He prayed. He drew back his hand his sword dropping as he thrust his hands forwards, crackling white flames reflecting the purity of he who wielded them- he let the golden sanctuary around him drop- and he cast the flames forwards.

Desecrating madness met virtuous purity and at once they warred.

The Captain let himself be lost to the flow of power running through him for a while. There was no subtlety to his actions. Just and endless illuminating flames against the suffocating darkness. Fire would purge this fool who thought to wield the spark against him. The Ember was his alone to wield, to purge the unclean with and bring about the reckoning of the Lords-

Evius snarled- he felt the air around him convulse- another chink in his armor. Ruins sparked and died, there essence fading as the heat of the flames burnt them away for these were psychic flames and not even a Knights Wards could last against such prolonged exposure.

" _Fool…"_ Crowed the Unmaker. _"You think to match psychic power against me? He who has lived in the warp- mastering the powers of the Gods while you were still but an unborn strand in the grand web?"_ A shift in the attack, flames wrapped around his purifying fire- slipping up and over them. _"Burn."_

Evius clenching his fists- forgetting himself and for the first time in his existence as a Psyker. He let the barriers drop. He raised his hand as if to stop the callus dark fire rushing towards him- as it would surely kill him, his armor was ravaged. He thought of fire.

Fire engulfed him.

…

It was as if a dragon had surged forth and swallowed him up in its breath- great maw opening wide- swallowing the golden spear of the Knight and eating it and wielder whole. Warpfire wrapped around Evius and closed in upon him. His sight was lost from them.

Ilitarus had failed his Captain once again.

" _Captain!"_ Ilitarus cried out, the closest to his charge but still too far away, the Feathered monstrosity –a Lord of Change in regal garb- capitalized on his distraction and with one mighty thrust of its staff knocked him aside. The Champion was saved from total devastation as Brother Terminator Hestery swings low with his hammer, using the momentary distraction Ilitarus provided to sunder the daemons leg with a brutal strike. The burning warp stave falters in its strike, failing to follow through and atomize Ilitarus with its unreal powers.

" _Brothers! Aid the Captain!"_ Ilitarus shouts, staggering to his feet, his ruined armor shattered in multiple places, his generator backpack hisses fitfully with various rents and gashes.

The Interceptors react first, twin falchions glistening in the warplight as they stepped in between reality and appeared beside the Sorcerer- Their attack is quick, brutal, and entirely ineffective.

The Sorcerer whips around with its blade staff, the incandescent edge cut through plasteel and ceramite- sundering the Nemesis blades even before they emerged from the warp, the chaotic powers the sorcerer wielded were dread and mighty, and with them he spun new fates.

" _I am the Unmaker! The Wayward Falsehood! The Liar of Night and Vexation of History! AND I! AM! DAEMON-KIND!"_ With a final, horrible triumph the sorcerer spread his arms, crimson and sapphire warplight cascaded around him as flame erupted from the ground about his feet, carried aloft on foul winds.

Finally brought low by the intervening strike of The paladin, the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch, and sundered by the purifying instruments of the Purgation squad, the Knights scrambled up the steps to reach the above dais, to avenge there fallen captain and stop the ascension that was taking place before them- They had not time, the fates were wavering with failing possibilities.

" _Evius! Evius!"_ Ilitarus howled again and again, stumbling after his Brothers, A strike marine caught him by the arm as he nearly fell and pulled him upright again, his Halberd glistening with the energies of his soul.

" _Tremble! Die! Be scoured and become but dust! Choke on the failure and futility of your stagnation and know that you are but pawns! Sacrifices and heralds of my ultimate ascension!"_ Mad with power, glorious with power, brilliant and horrible the Unmaker crackles, his soul rent and torn, replaced with Power. Pure, unrelenting warp energy floods his being. His snarling helm twists into a thousand different faces, each one mimicking the hate of the lost souls in the warp that poured into his core. Pinioned wings worthy of an angel but corrupted with burning feathers and skeletal bones erupt from his armored frame, arms turn into warpfire talons and feet grow gnarled hateful tentacles crusted with eyes. The sigil of Tzeentch carved onto the chest plate of the Thousand Son Psyker erupts and convulses until a single colorless eye stares out at the world, warp lightning spilling from its corners in the place of tears.

" ** _I see the possibility of time itself! I shall write the beginnings of all ends- your ends! And in them I see myself!"_**

Talon hands rise above an ever-changing head, raised as if in supplication to its God, and a rent in reality tears open as it grasps the very fabrics of the wall between worlds and _pulls_.

Gibbering, mad souls made up of blue flame pour from the rent in space, shrieking and crying the throw themselves at the Armored Knights, their Aegis plates burning with white light, the runes branding themselves into he flesh underneath, but they fight regardless- they fight even though the odds are impossible, even though they are pulled into the air and torn apart as the Cackling Daemon Prince flicks its hands out and skewers them with telekinetic powers.

They fight on.

They fight because no one else can.

They fight on because they are the glimmer of Hope against the Darkness.

They fight on, storm bolters roaring and Nemesis blades scouring- because that is what is asked of them.

They fight on so Hope may never truly die.

They walk the path of all that is asked of a Grey Knight.

To become Hope and Fight.

And Fight They Do.

They Fight, armored bodies pulled down, devoured by flame and picked apart by capering Daemons walking across the air.

They fight even as they are skewered with telekinetic bolts of warp essence, and torn apart form the inside.

They Fight even as they are forced to climb over the bodies of their own Brothers so they might cut into the enemy that felled them.

They fight on so they may Buy Humanity Time.

They Fight on against the inevitable; they fight on against the unstoppable.

They Die and bleed at the hands of the immortal and all powerful- fighting with barking bolter and biting blade- so that Humanity might have one more day.

They Fight on so that on a distant world a family can cherish a walk under a starry sky.

They Fight on so that a Guardsman may forge a home on a world won through blood.

They Fight on so that a Drunkard may change his ways.

They Fight on so the small child in that Family can walk the streets of its city at night and not fear beasts that lurk in shadows.

They Fight on so that guardsman can earn his keep in the fields and maybe raise a family ignorant to what lurks behind the stars.

They Fight on so that Drunkard may hear the peace of the Emperor and stray from the Vices of chaos, and walk proud and tall amongst his fellows with a pocket of Throne gilt earned in honest labor.

They Fight on so this all may become possible; they fight against the encroaching madness so that tomorrow may yet rise unmolested for mankind.

They Fight on, even if it may only buy that family a few more precious seconds together.

They Fight on, even if it may give that Guardsman one more night of sleep not shattered by the howls of Daemonkind.

So that Drunkard may one day become a hero.

They Fight on even as Embers are tossed into the air, spread from an ethereal fire that licks at the ground.

They Fight on because they hold the Hope of humanity.

That Flame must never be allowed to die.

" _Evius!"_ Ilitarus howls in defiant, grief stricken rage. Anger pushing aside pain as he hurls himself to the front, pushing past Daemon and Brother alike, his fractured helm torn from his head by the grubby hands of some abomination.

He cuts through a swath of Shrieking imps, dodges the spear of the Unmaker, parries the blade of a cackler, weathers the fire of a flamer- he reaches, bloodied gauntlets plunging into the burning warpfire wall that entraps his Captain, the purple flames destroy his hands, his Aegis plate shatters on contact with the raw stuff of chaos-

" _EVIUS!_ " He screams. Pulled away as the Spear of Telekinetic power punches through his back, into his gut and tears out rolls of intestine through the front, it jerks him upwards and lifts him into the air.

…

The fire is warm.

The coals burn his feet.

But he does not feel that pain.

For the pain is he feels is within.

It burns, it melts, and it hardens only to burn again.

Then it melts, and cools, only to harden once more again, the pit of his stomach throbs with this burning agony, and is crushed by its hardening.

The melting soothes the wounds, but it is stripped away again, and again.

The pressure rises.

It becomes all he can feel; the combustion consumes his veins, inches its way into him with increasing ferocity.

Changing him.

His soul, is on fire.

The flames without grow closer. Burn hotter.

They do not burn as hot as the Flames within.

It is agony. It clutches at his chest and crushes his hearts, encapsulates his mind in a vice and burns it with hot iron- so he stops thinking.

His eyes feel like stones in their sockets, jagged rocks scrapping his skull with every blink and darting glance- so he stops looking.

Blood trickles down his throat.

His gums bleed and teeth crack.

He gasps for air.

His twin hearts palpate erratically.

His lungs feel about ready to burst.

 _"_ _EVIUS"_

Something calls for him, calls his… name?

Eyes shaking, pain lancing through his optic nerves, he wheezes.

Evius opens his eyes.

He spies a blackened, charred stump reach through the fire without.

It holds an Ember in its grasp.

He reaches for it, shaking hands and shuddering breath.

He grasps it.

…

Evius opens his eyes.

There is Fire.

His armor scorched black with the warp fire of chaos that burns around him, but not touching him. He, staggers to his feet, the dead weight of his Terminator armor nearly driving him back down to the ground.

His body throbs with heat. His skin is burning, his breath is ragged, and his brain feels like it is in a vice.

His stomach is sick and his muscles are raw.

He is Fire.

A shaky, gauntleted fist reaches out, hesitation twitches through his numb mind and he opens his fist.

Fire.

A soft, desperate moan trickles past his bleeding lips, as he beholds a flame flickering in the palm of his hand, glowing and bright even against the warp flames.

It spreads.

It crawls along his arms, cascading over his Aegis, dancing between the dead runes, he franticly swats at the flames with his other hand, but they only spread to it, surging up and over his body, hungry and questing, they engulf him.

The earth shakes beneath him, and two twisting arcs of fire erupt from his body.

They do not burn.

He screams as something is born from his very soul.

…

Pain crushes his organs, Ilitarus stifles a scream- he will deny the enemy that victory in his defeat, yet he coughs and hacks at empty air as something like a fist pulls at his internals, dragging his intestines out through the rent in his armor- dagger like agony cuts into him, thrusting towards his hearts-

 _"_ AH _H_ _ **AHA**_ _HA_ HAHHA ** _HHAAAA_** HAHHAHAHHHHAHHAH _HAHA_ HA **HAA**!"

Psychosis Incarnate erupts from behind a wall of flame.

It is The Eater.

It is hungry.


	10. Act VIII: Rebirth

Heat.

Light.

Sound.

Always in that order.

Always.

Aches always are accompanied after a particularly brutal death.

The madness sets in soon after, the last of the harvest draining away, brought to the forefront as humanity is stripped away by hollowhood.

Not this time though.

It is different.

Flesh nits cleanly over supple muscle and strong bone. Clarity echoed in open eyes, the core at its center so used to the pain of malnourishment suckles at a empyreal teat.

Power is here. Close, the sweet elixir of Estus flowing into the empty and mixing with Souls.

The blood runs thick in non-atrophied veins, and in that blood a savagery churns like water brought to a slow boil.

A rictus grin of madness leers out at a new world ripe with harvest.

The song begins:

Cross the fire take the heat the pain is but splinters see the kill a world of blood and thunder with the steel men and wanton lusts of the unborn kin see the mighty see the kill make the kill need to move the world is hateful and the sky is red the cathedral palace place of slaughter It resides in is a hell of war and combat the spiraling melees and rich death shrieks of the slain fiends and foes- _there!_

It is mighty- Burning wings and a mad celestial eye that stares at the steel man it holds in its grip of power.

It salivates.

It wants its power.

It Will Eat Its Soul.

The laugh of the truly demented cuts through the clamor of the lesser beings that deem themselves worthy of its presence.

The predator strikes.

…

Ilitarus cannot scream but would, It springs upwards, a blur of motion, snapping at the air and twisting upwards as It grabs his foot, and _pulls_ Itself upwards along his back. It kicks off of him, horrible, mindless giggles and fits of snickering laughter echo in his ears. The pressure stops. He falls twenty feet, ceramite armor smashing into the stone dais and shattering it. He coughs up thick Astartes' blood, it leaks across his face. He stares upwards.

It is The Eater. Born again like a malignant curse. A resurgent Virus.

It fights a Daemon Prince in the throws of ascension.

Forcing himself to sit, Ilitarus stares in bewilderment, above him in the false sky of a warp rift the Eater sings through the air, a charnel blade he knew to well held in one hand as it slammed into a whirling screamer, pushing off its discus body and grabbing ahold of another, furies swung down from the rift overhead and squealed their impish cries, hell forged claws outstretched and questing for the Eaters neck. They were young and foolish spirits, and they fell to the ground below in ribbons, quicksilver blade twitching in a reflexive flourish that ended their existence in consumption.

The Unmaker ignored the eater, so glutted on the favor of its master that it did not see the looming threat of an apex beast until its shadow finally fell upon his celestial form- the grave spawned Eater riding on a carpet of Screamers, hacking and cutting madly at the manta-things as the swarmed about with there lamprey mouths and razor wings.

It jumped, twisting through the air and hacking at a flock of screamers that reared back over and arrowed into the Eater, passing by on either side as its ancient blade bisected them cleanly down the center, it was only now in such close proximity that the Unmaker was finally roused to the sucking abyss in human, and by then it was far too late.

Like a stone called back to the ground it landed on the back of the Unmaker and nearly lost its balance, grabbing ahold of a tuft of Feathers and swinging wildly as it angled its blade for a killing strike. The Unmaker shrieked from twenty different maws, no longer blessed with the tongue of sentient speech it let loose with the garble talk of Daemons. Fire erupted across its forms as a channel of warp power burst through its etheric body to set alight the ancient thing that clung to its back like a flea.

Through burning skin the Eater snarls in its own language, that of the mad beasts lost to reason. It struck out, blade hacking at the skeleton wings of pinioned feathers and with three hacking strikes the wing was severed, and It clung tight to the back of its prey as it cried out for vengeance as it fell to the ground.

Had the place they did battle in still resided within the boundaries of reality the impact of an ascendant daemon prince would have shaken loose the rafters, but as they were now it would be a barley noticeable tremor in a world lost to the mad whimsies of the soul.

The pulpy flesh of the warp tainted cathedral explodes into a fountain of blood and meat as the Unmaker careens into the ground, a mass of writhing tentacles erupts form its impact point, catching the Daemon princes and lashing at the mite who roe across his back. The eater is quick- still so sinfully quick and leaps clear, flipping through the air like a death cult assassin exulting in a dance of victory.

As it landed the Unmaker roared its outrage, the psychic scream rolled over the battlegrounds, staggering knights and daemons alike, it was a call of wounded pride and a promise of single-minded revenge against the fiend that wounded it. It tore away the tentacles that it had called forth to arrest its fall and crush the flea that had wounded a goliath, its legs reformed, splicing together into a single solid mass of tentacles that snaked along the ground and wound together into a mimicry of legs. The mutable grey mass of flesh that once served as a head molded into something that could have served as a face in vague description, the split maw opened and a tongue lolled sluggishly as it began to speak.

" ** _I KNOW NOT HOW YOU CAME TO BE- WARDED THING. I KNOW NOT HOW THE CORPSE KNIGHTS CAME TO POSSESS YOU, BUT I SHALL SEE THE WARP RID OF YOU._** "

The unmake surged forward, single wing flaring brightly behind it as it raised its mighty claws, talon fingers crackling with power as the ground around the eater began to shape and mod itself to the whims of one of the warps chosen princes. Mighty and terrible was his power, and so long as they did battle in the bent reality of the cathedral he held mastery over all within.

A forest of tentacles erupted from the ground around the eater all of them tipped with bony barbs they speared downwards, the Eater dove forwards and into a roll, springing clear once again as it hit ground and that too turned into a forest of bladed tendrils snaking up form the flesh of the building. It leapt and twirled, kicking off of the trunks of massive snake lick rolls of sentient flesh. Its blade glimmered red with the light of a shadowed warp rift, and all about them was the sound of carnage.

Fighting through the mass of furies a purgation squad surged forwards to take up firing positions upon the fallen Daemon prince, only to be swept away by the hellfires of Tzeentchian flamers, runic armor blistering gold and silver in the reflective purple flames. A Psycannon thundered in retaliation amidst the conflagration with psychically charged bolt rounds that tore through the Tzeentchian daemons. As the flames died, from a squad of five only one remained standing.

A Terminator smashed through a throng of furies, stormbolter sewing havoc at point blank range as sanctified bolter rounds ripped through the limpid flesh of the bat winged beasts, as his final mag ran dry and his weapon fell silent he swung with his hammer, the cruel eagle head of the hammer smashed aside the chaos miasma that beset him, but he was alone and they were many.

Back to back, two interceptors dueled against the swirling hurricane of Screamers that flitted around them; a physical stormwall of Daemonflesh trapped them in an ever-closing eye. Their nemesis blades flashed out, glinting silver in the light of the warp as they funneled their souls into the cutting edges of their falchions.

Mighty Adaphal fought to contain the omnipotent Lord of change, its multihued feathers sparking with unreal energies as its staff came down once more against the hull of Adaphals sarcophagi. Stepping forwards and swinging with a blazing power claw Adaphal knocked aside the warp forged staff and returned the wound with the blade fist of his left arm, the coruscating psychic blade shearing through empty air as the Lord of change funneled the warp into its being and shifted through time and space bursting into reality behind Adaphal, who only had just enough time to spin on his axis and deflect the psychic bolt of energy launched at him from the beady eyes of the greater daemon. Fearing no evil, Adaphal charged once more.

A hundred more individual duels and dramas played out in the heated and pitched battle between Knight and Daemon, force blades cut through daemonflesh just as often as claw rent ceramite. Psychic powers raged against each other as the Daemons of Tzeentch battered the mental defenses of the Grey Knights.

These were all immaterial, as only one true battle raged at the center. A pale and naked human armed with a sliver of star-forged metal leaped and danced through a forest of living flesh. Serpent flesh grew from the ground, veins and bulging eyes wriggled and blinked sightlessly on a head filled with needles, they snapped and bit at the Dancer who spun and hacked in equal measure.

Swarms of Daemons headed the call of their master and swooped down through the ether to lop off Its head with a single pass from their bladed wings, only for the Figure to open its hand that held a flame that could never die and incinerate them with the actuation of its Will.

It darted through the ash leavings of banished daemons and vaulted over the armored forms of Knights, Its touch caustic to the holy wards. It sprinted, and leapt through the air, sailing over a pit of gnashing teeth and landing at long last before its Prey.

Two ugly Beasts stared at each other in loathing.

…

Moving with a swiftness that belied its bulk the Prey swung a claw of fire, to low to duck It jerked back, muscles twitching and contracting like an epileptic. It carried the body of a Human, but it was only a vessel, a suit. Soul Power bled off it like vapor, giving strength to otherwise useless muscles, forcing nerves into overdrive and linking synaptic connections on a preternatural scale. Its mind was insane, broken, twisted and malformed beyond reasonable comprehension by even the most well versed psychoanalysts- but in that mad cauldron of regret, depression, rage, and psychotic bloodlust that made up the emotional center of its brain was a phenomenally skilled, hyper reactive master of the blade.

The Daemon swung again, sweeping with the back of its claw in hopes of catching the Eater of guard only to be graced with the blooded edge of its blade- the sharp metal of ancient magics blistering the cut flesh of the ascended. A rolling howl trumpeted from the maws of the Daemon prince as magic terrible and old infected its blood, spreading pain through its system like nothing ever before- the Eater powered forwards as the Prince recoiled, going from standing to motion in the time it took to blink. It speared up with its blade, the ancient sword tasting flesh once and wanting another sample. It parted the rolling flesh of the Ascendant princes tentacle legs easily enough as it leapt past the Prince its blade flicking out to tear through the great writing mass of fleshy squirming ropes. The Prince howled again- the new bolt of pain marshaling its senses like a jagged spear of ice into its very core. It whirled around, spastic muscle twitches on its back forcing black, bony arms to rupture through the skin- flesh and muscle crawling along the surface and granting them power and motion.

The Daemon threw itself into a renewed melee, smashing the ground with a freshly wrought pair of slab fists. It had lost all horrific grace it might have possessed- whatever demoniac knowledge granted to this beast in exchange for its soul pushed aside in an effort to burry the pale creature that danced around it with mocking giggles and cursed sword.

The Laughing, the damned laughing, it was the mirth that drove the Unmaker Beast to such a Khornate Rage. It demanded fear, it demanded subservience, respect, worship or even hatred and loathing. It had gained the powers of the Dark Gods and through this power it had achieved immortality and boundless knowledge of warpcraft.

It would not be mocked by some puny Relic.

It roared from its fleshy maws, throats laced with veins of warp energy shrieking in both materium and immaterium. It was a sound that heralded doom across battlefields but to the Eater it was a beacon to a prize long sought and often dreamt of in waking memory. So what it its ears bled and eyes ran crimson? The Dance continued regardless.

The Prey Attacks, fists and claws flying at It in equal measure. There is no blocking the heinous strength that compels this beast but there is no need to force might against might when pursued by such artless strikes. A duck and a swerve and a step back, the Mystic blade of Astora leaving lingering wounds across the offending limbs.

The Prey ruptures along its hunched back, spine seeming to snap and split at the base as a column of new vertebrae explode out and down and then upwards as segmented tail sections bob and curl in on themselves, the end of the newly grown appendage terminating in a vicious curved stinger. Its transformation is not yet done, as a second and then a third tail split-rupture from the primary leaving a trio of wicked barbs leaking a truly terrible substance. The Eater leaps back, the flesh-ground where it once stood bursting apart in a splash of blood and gore as The Prey whips one of its stingers over its faceless head in a blur of raw and aggressive motion, the second and third stingers blur overhead forcing the Eater back three more times before finding its back against the still bleeding stump of a flesh tendril. The Prey bellowed its anger, stampeding forwards to crush the Eater, to rip it apart with its massive claws and add its face to its collection.

A burst of psychically charged bolts explode across the hide of the Daemon Prince in a cascade of holy golden fire, the flames sear across the mutable skin of the Ascendant Unmaker, burning away hatefully glowing runes and staring eyes, mouths twitch open and scream as another salvo streaks through the air and stumble the charging Prey. The Eater allows a momentary flicker of curiosity to surface in its haze of the Hunt, it sees one of the Silver Beetle men stumble forwards, armor cracked and worn, scorched clean by warp fire, in his hands a chunky cannon-machine that spins and glows with condensed power. He turns it on the Prey, electric blue bolts spit out and slam into the side of the Unmaker. A howled command in a language unknown and undesired to the Eater sets a hell-flock of screaming creatures upon the Beetle Man, his weapon snaps up and scatters the swarm but only for a moment and then they are upon him.

Stumbling to its feet the Daemon prince snarls and seethes, its hundred eyes searching for the warded things that dared hurt it- it finds it easy enough, crouched by a fallen Knight-

Pain.

The Eater Cackles and laughs, a child in a playground, it rolls its shoulder- watching as the Prey writhes and froths at its thousand mouths. The glittering Halberd of the dead Beetle lodged squarely through the featureless face sitting between its hulking shoulders.

The straight sword flicks outwards, flicking the offal off its surface it advances as the Prey writhes on the ground, magic's spilling off its surface and arcing randomly as a swath of mutations mold over its frame- it grows spines, then feathers and then hard scales. The Eater cares not, with a hungry need it jumps forwards- landing on one of its massive arms and then vaulting again onto its back, grabbing the one remaining bone-wing for support, it grips its sword tight-

-and cuts with callus efficiency. The Unmaker howls, rage and spittle bubbling from a thousand mouths along its rippling hide, eyes spear out warp lightning as its ever mutable skin changes and flows like water, hatred sparking off its form in incandescent blasts of power.

Warp lightning strikes the Eater, but it will not be denied, it sinks its blade down to the hilt, old enchantments burning and hissing in contact with daemon-flesh. It is not enough, Hissing, cursing, snarling, the Eater rips the blade free, the gaping writhing wound then filled with a sparking hand, there is a brief moment of illumination-

And then fire consumes what was once the Unmaker.

…

Duty comes at a price that the Grey Knights know all too well. A price payed in the corpses of fallen brothers.

As the silence known only to the survivors of a conflict falls, beaten, bloodied Knights rise from amongst the corpses of fading Daemons, and prepare to count the price.

The remainders of the Strike marines rise first, out of ten rise four; a Justicar pulls a brother Justicar from a pile of the dead. Force swords and halberds drip with daemon-blood among those seven only sixty odd bolter rounds remain unspent.

The Interceptors fared little better, of ten there was now six, survivors of each squad pulling themselves from the viscous traps of rotting flesh and felled daemons. Two brothers shove corpses aside, and pull free a wounded brother.

The Purgation squad suffers only one survivor. Battered, scorched and beaten, his psycannon broken and spent, the Knight stands alone atop a pile of bested Screamers.

The hulking silver grey of the Terminators is left to only two of the five that entered. Their armor is broken, foul warp magic's from a pair of Greater Daemons sundering them and their brothers. Adaphal holds one claw in victory- the other ripped away by the hell staff of a Changer of Ways.

Illitarus breathes, choking his pain down in great heavy gulps. He blinks away the blood and bits through the fading at the edge of his vision. He stares to the center room.

They have survived. They had payed the price. The Emperor's chosen has prevailed.

The silence is broken by a pitched cackle of laughter. Silver helms weary and dazed turn, searching for the source of such wild mirth. Blue lenses stare to the center of the corrupted cathedral as orgasmic, sensual moaning and hysterical laughter meld into one unholy cacophony.

The Eater laughs. Sitting atop a desiccated husk fading into white mist. Ether and faint screams trailing off the body of an ascendant being only to wrap around the glowing form of the Eater.

It had destroyed a Daemon Prince. Still bleeding with the power of the Dark Gods, still glowing with the gaze of its patron, it had been cut down- not banished, not sent back to its dark realm.

Destroyed.

Its soul devoured.

Lost to existence, digested in the gullet of a Predator beast.

"SLAY IT!"

Ilitarus bellows, half mad with the sight himself. He cannot stand, cannot move, his insides spilled out before him, his gauntleted hands stuffing intestines back into the jagged wound in his gut.

His brothers surge forwards, half dead themselves, scratched, scoured armor, empty storm bolter mags littered around them, with the decaying bodies of daemons, fleeing back to their hellscape in fear of the devouring thing before them.

A bolt round fired from up high slams into the Eater, an arm blown off as it is staggered backwards.

Evius leaps down from the flame scorched pulpit, and surges forwards.

…

Power.

Power unending.

So many souls. So full.

The hunger... it's gone.

It's sated. Its full, filled to the brim and in danger of spilling over.

It is rocked by a blow that would crumple an armored vehicle.

It rolls over onto its back, something warm is nearby, and it feels…

Good. Familiar.

The warm flames of the Bonfire sing their welcome.

A bellow of rage mixed in with it.

…

Ilitarus blinks blood from his eyes, blood drools from his broken nose and cracked skull but he ignores it; his captain still yet lives. Armor in pieces and shattered- nothing more than a scrap of metal at this point, but it does nothing to hold him from his objective.

The Eater is thrown back as Evius bulldozes into it, leading with a devastating blow- knocking the Eater to the ruined ground.

The cacophony of a Stormbolter unloading its munitions at point blank range graces his ears.

Strong arms pull him back, a syringe punches into his neck.

He sleeps.

…

Fire. Reload. Fire. Reload. Fire. Reload.

Mag after mag is fed to the dented and soot black yet still functional-mounted bolter, the aching pain pushed back, forgotten. A mask of stony rage eclipses Captain Evius' face; the Mass Reactive destruction he unloads onto the writhing body is his only concern.

It.

Does.

Nothing.

The Bolter rings empty.

The successive clicks of the firing mechanism sounding hollow in an empty chamber

Mad brown eyes leer up at him. A rictus grin of the truly deranged. Giddy laughter.

He sees the craters of bolter wounds seal and close, mended in the same time it took for them to form.

He falls to his knees on top of the thing; his armored fists rain down on its face. He knocks aside its attempts to block him, and shatters bones that heal the moment his fist leaves. Evius grips his hands about its throat, and squeezes, the spine refuses to break. The Captain levers his thumbs into its eyes, and tries to pull apart the skull, it refuses to move, yet through it all he remains passive, cold, like stone frozen in ice.

A Force halberd slams into the grin, psychic power encapsulates its edge, and it cuts deep through the spine of the Eater.

It does not die.

The wash of blue flame from an Incinerator engulfs that same face, skin crackles and chars, eyes boil and pop.

It does not die.

A brutal ministration from a Nemesis Daemon Hammer replaces the Halberd, brain and gore scatter along the ground.

It does not die.

He stands, and steps away from the carnage, the enraged shouts of his marines and the Eater blending into one. When Evius is fifty paces away, he turns and stares back at what remains.

Blades embed themselves into the body of the thing, a hammer demolishes its torso, a Psycannon pulps the body with cleansing bolts of pure psychic essence, and several different flavors of bolters empty into the ash.

He watches, he waits. He is stone.

" _Brother Captain. We thought you dead_." His men walk to him. His armor is torn, burnt, and broken. But he lives.

"He seems to have the habit of making us think that." Another with a torn helmet comments, a tired smile on his features, Evius recognizes him from Cor.

"Back away from me." He quietly commands.

" _Captain?_ "

"Obey my orders, Brothers." The assembled Knights, Terminators, Interceptors and the like hesitate, and stand back. Ceramite feet scraping along the ground now free of warpflesh, they glance back at the vanquished Eater.

They find only a vanishing pool of blood.

Evius stares down as the stone beneath his feet melts into a ring of fire, two twin flames spike upwards and shadow his body in a tepid conical spiral about him.

He can hear the gasps, the shouts of revulsion and shock.

The disbelief and confusion.

"Brothers." He speaks to them.

"You must execute me."

His boot slams down on the hand of The Eater as it reaches up from the stone. An apparition becoming solid as it slides through the door of reality.

"I am tainted."

...

He sat in the Thunderhawk. At his side were two of his finest Terminators. Their Force hammers hummed silently.

He was stripped of his armor and wore only simple vestments- Chains.

Things forged from the armor of fallen Knights, powerful runic wards covered their surface. Microscopic engravings that depicted the acts of saints and the Emperor in their entirety, each link was a tome of ideals that banished the darkness. These were bindings used to restrain only the strongest of Daemonhosts.

They were now used to hold him.

The tragedy that led to this rewound once more in his head, and he played it again, tormenting himself with the sight of His brothers looking upon him in disbelief and anguish. He was no longer alive to them, he was dead- they wished he was dead for then the pain would be less. With how it sat now, he was the first. The first Fallen of the Grey Knights.

He had killed his Chapter through his weakness. It boiled down to that one simple facet.

The Grey Knights were the most powerful weapon available to mankind when it came to combating the Daemonic threat of Chaos. They were gifted with the finest wargear in the imperium, they were Astartes and they were psychically attuned to the warp- while this would spell destruction for any normal man or Astartes who were pit against the beasts of the Warp, the Grey Knights were different: They could not be corrupted. There spirits burned with a fire that could not be grasped by the neverborn, in fact, it was anathema to them, Lesser daemons of chaos simply breaking apart in the presence of a grey knight.

As a brother captain, he marched alongside his battle brothers against the Daemonic horde, he knew how the power of belief shaped the warp, he knew how a moment of doubt -a crack in something that was once absolute- can break an army before it even sees the battlefield.

He was the first crack in the Grey Knights belief.

He stared at the proof of that fracture across from him.

It wore the body of a young woman. Age hidden by a pair of ancient brown eyes that had seen the death of kingdoms and beginning of others. Their knowledge was tainted by a hidden madness that slept behind them, dirty red hair that was thought black or brown from the stains of blood and excrement.

It was a monster. It did not speak. It stole souls. It devoured Daemons. And he was bound to it somehow.


	11. Act IX: Shattered Metal

Lord Inquisitor Sheida paused at the window; the reinforced glass, twin weapon servitors and motionless purifiers did nothing to alleviate sense of danger in the room beyond.

She saw Evius, motionless on the floor, legs crossed and palms clasped in the symbol of the Aquila against his chest. His face was still and eyes closed, but he radiated an aura of unadulterated desolation.

He was not alone in the stark, rune inscribed chamber.

The Beast stalked the corners of the room, it moved with a twisted grace, intermittently spinning on its heel and changing direction.

Even unarmed it was dangerous. A single Knight and several serfs, along with countless servitors had suffered its ministrations in the effort of transporting it to this very room.

Sheida did not know how it had managed to do so, but it had escaped the bonds that had bound it so securely. Slipping the sanctified chains like a worm squeezing through a metal grate. Then they found a better restraint.

She nodded to the two guards- Elite Purifiers, each armed with a lethal and masterfully crafted Nemesis sword and the customary storm bolters, but it was the rarified stasis grenades they had looped onto their belts that announced their pedigree the most clearly. "Open it." She asked, as one does not order a Purifier from outside the Chapter, not even inquisitors.

She entered the room.

She reached for her hellpistol at once, but she was too slow, the purifiers were too slow, the weapon servitors were too slow.

A meter away from her face, the fist stopped, the runic locks preventing the manifestation of its fire, rendered their use as a bludgeoning weight.

A strong, crushing hand was wrapped around its neck.

Evius stood behind it, choking it, but unable to kill it.

He was the restraint.

It was content, placid, and amicable in its expression even, smiling demurely as its windpipe was crushed. Evius tossed it across the room; it impacted the adamantium wall with a sickening snap of shattered bones and left a trail of blood as it slid down to the floor, its head splayed at an odd angle. It stood up almost immediately. That maniac grin plastered across its bloodied face, its neck resetting with a muffled crack. It did not launch itself at her again.

A moment passed, and then she spoke. "Have you managed to get it to say anything?" She asked Evius, who did not meet her gaze.

Astartes were always a stoic bunch, not given to emotion that is not hatred or zeal. Grief was beyond them, compassion was mostly beyond them, love for anything save The Emperor and the Chapter was completely beyond them.

She found now that there was another emotion they were not completely beyond: Shame. It radiated off of Evius, it was palpable in his posture, in his glinting eyes, in his averted gaze in the face of the Purifiers.

She was quite for a few moments more, and then she tried a different approach. "No one blames you, Captain." She hesitated before continuing. "It was said before, this is an un-"

"Why do I still live, Lord Inquisitor?" He asked suddenly. "This being is bound to me, we know that much. And when I am in its proximity it cannot die, and if it does it merely returns." He looked down at Sheida in body and spirit,

"Why do I still live?"

"Knowledge." The second voice echoed into the room.

On stilted metal legs, the inquisitor stalked into the chamber. Tubes and syringes snaked into a robed body, face obscured by the drawn hood. The Eaters eyes snapped up immediately.

It was not this new figure that drew its attention.

Even with its inhibitor on, it still chilled the room with empty horror.

"Inquisitor…" Evius began, trailing off at the end. This face- or lack their of- was unknown to him, he felt the chill wash over him, and glanced over at the synthskin-clad nightmare.

"My name is unneeded." The wheezing cough of a respirator filled the room.

The Eater drew closer, the grin about its features gone; it was eyeing the Culexis Assassin with something like wary intrigue.

"My purpose is all that you need know." A pause for breath, the Inquisitor was ancient, a life so long that it was only extended not by Juviant drugs but by the mysterious ways of the Mechanicum. "This being." A metal hand lifted up to point at the Eater. She did not turn its gaze away from the Assassin, who regarded her just as coldly.

…

They left the room, though it was the Assassin and Eater that stayed within the cell. Evius did not give warning, for he knew all to well the power of the Assassins.

"It is gifted with the soul of a Pariah, but tempered." Their conversation continued, the Inquisitor wheezing fitfully through his respirator.

"It eats the soul of others to supplement its lack of one. And when defeated, it returns." What he stated was already known. Evius glowered down at the Ancient. "How do we kill it?"

"Why would we?" He asked in return. "Its power- it can be harnessed _used_."

The Captain was tempted to rip out the tubes that kept the Man alive. "Such action is folly!" He raised his voice, "That monster is the stuff of dark-dreams! It is not to be used but destroyed!"

"Hear him out, Captain." Shieda was there next to him, trying- and failing to calm him.

"We know of Mutants, and Abhumans, those that deviate from the set course of mankind's ascension." A pause for breath. "Psykers are among those who deviate from the Human form." Another breath. "But what of the Pariah? The Black Souls and Nulls? They too are an evolution of man."

Evius wished to break the man before him for such casual heresy.

"This Being… This 'Eater', must be an evolution of those beings that shun the Warp, instead of a conduit like a psyker…" The Inquisitor sucked more air from his tube. "This being is simple oblivion. A new form of Anti-Psyker, one that does not naturally exude the wrongness of a Pariah."

"Such is trivial, it is still but an abomination to be destroyed."

"Ah, but what if we could turn its claws outwards-"

"You mean to tame it?" Evius was incredulous, "It is a mad dog, a masterless beast. It kills whatever it wills with equal pleasure!"

"Perhaps, but it does know fear in equal measure."

"I hardly believe so."

"It." A breath. "Uses the souls of others, it is a battery in such regards. It needs the power of souls to continue its killings. What, if we were to take such souls away?"

"What do you mean?"

"Observe." They went to the window, and the Inquisitor spoke into the Vox woven into his many extensive augmetics. The Assassin released its inhibitor, and let loose the hell of its soul.

…

Evius sat alone, on a ship of the Inquisition. At its helm was Lord Inquisitor Sheida Bruat of the Ordo Malleus.

He thought back to the chamber, to what happened after the Assassin unleashed its curse, and about everything that had happened afterwords.

 _A silent cloud of psychic death erupted from the blacksoul, stripping the immaterium away and leaving only a cage of invisible torment- of perpetual wrongness._ _The Eater jerked back as if struck, convulsing, falling to the ground and writhing as it suffered the presence of a cessation of the warp. All at once it began- a shriveling of the skin, a rapid decay of the body as taught muscle turned into sallow grey, eyes sunk away into shriveled bits as a white phosphorescence exhaled from the body of the Eater, black candles wisped away with them, dispersing into the air only to be shattered by the presence of the blacksoul._

 _A whispered command from the ancient inquisitor, and that feeling of wrongness faded, cloistered away by technology barley understood._

 _Evius gazed down at a shriveled wretch. No longer did it masquerade in human form- it now wore its true skin._

 _They sent in a wretch to confirm whether it still lived or not, a heretic slave that the ancient inquisitor brought with him wherever he went. Almost at once the Eater pounced upon the slave with gnarled claws- tore it to shreds, more animal than sentient being in that one moment. At once the flesh returned as it devoured the soul of the slave, the familiar, damnable red headed and brown-eyed thing that he was cursed with reasserted itself along with a semblance of reason._

 _It tore across the cell, putting as much distance between it and the Assassin as it could. Evius did not know what to say after that. But they found the Eater to be far more compliant to their demands- but it still wouldn't talk._

It had been five days since that incident. Evius was prepared for another day of silent meditation, begging forgiveness from the Emperor from the center of his cell, the monotony was broken by an Elite Purifier who chained both him and the Eater, and led them through the halls of Titan- the last time Evius ever expected to see them again.

They were lead to one of the many hangers that skirted the surface of the blasted Saturn moon; an inquisitorial gunship, Sheida, and a stormtrooper retinue met them there. The Inquisitor perceived the questions that Evius had, and bid for him to hold them for later. They boarded the Gunship, and within an Hour, Evius found himself within a ships holding cell, sparsely padded with only a bench that he did not sit on for his weight would crush it. So he knelt on the floor, and prayed.

He heard footsteps from outside his cell now, soft and clipped- but defiantly metal. He raised his head and lowered his hands to his knees. Moments later the electric blue gaze of Sheida Bruat painted the dimly lit cells interior.

"Captain," She greeted, but Evius shook his head.

"I am no longer a Brother Captain, Lord Inquisitor." Evius glanced up at Sheida, There was steel in that look but it was cracked. Evius glanced away, chest rising and falling with a long sigh. "I do not know what I am." The complacent, almost accepting grievance of the answer gave Sheida pause, but as always the Inquisitor had something to say, no matter the moment.

"I do believe that you have questions as to where you are, regardless of your current predicament…" She said. Evius nodded slowly. "As you may have already noticed, you are aboard a vessel, _my_ personal ship, to be precise."

It was common knowledge to even the lowliest citizens of the Imperium of Man that Inquisitors could requisition any matter of object in their duty to The Emperor. A personal ship was honestly one of the less ostentatious of equipment owned by an Inquisitor. "So you intend to take me to the inquisitorial station of Saturn?" Evius couldn't think of anywhere else he would be sent. He was corrupted by foreign powers- the first Grey Knight to be corrupted. It would be imperative to know if this could happen again.

The Lord Inquisitor hesitated, as if planning her next move. "Not… exactly."

"Then why am I here?" Evius asked.

"The Eater has garnered interest in the Inquisition, this you already know. Its ability to absorb and destroy Daemonic entities without visible signs of corruption has turned many a head in the Ordos." Evius grimaced at once; the fools would bring about grim results if that power were to fall into the wrong hands.

"It is insane, and dangerous. It cannot be trusted regardless of what collar you place upon it." He argued, "It is a monster, Lord Inquisitor. Mankind would do well to be rid of it."

"Perhaps so, and maybe in due time. Yet it can be used as a weapon against the Daemonic, you know better than anyone that any weapon against Chaos is not one to be squandered. The Ordos would not see it any other way."

Sheida argued a good point. He too saw what the Eater did to the Daemon Prince on Oluriti, a potentially grave enemy of the Imperium destroyed- not banished- destroyed, consumed, devoured. The Unmaker would never be a threat again. He could see why a weapon of such capability would be desired by mankind, for if he did not know any better he too would desire such a weapon. If it was the weapon they desired, than that raised one more question. "Then what of me? If it were to die it would just be reborn from whatever curse it has scarred me with."

"Yes, that is true. But because of that you are valuable, and as a Brother captain-"

"Former."

"Yes, fine, former, you know the risks inherent of destroying a chaos artifact- if that is what this is, and you were somehow bound to it, then you are the perfect host." Such was true; if he were to die there is no telling if the curse would not just simply transfer to the next nearest and capable host. "And that reminds me, what of Castellan Crow? Does he not carry a cursed blade?"

Evius chuckled at this, shaking his head in sad refute. "I am no Purifier…"

"It does not matter if you are or are not," Sheida snapped, growing tired of this self-pity and loathing. "You are the one who this beast is bound to, there is no changing that now. What I come to you with now is an offering. A choice."

"A choice?"

"You can either go to the inquisitorial facility orbiting Saturn, and undergo various operations and experiments to see what has happened to you, and waste away on a table. Or you can join my retinue."

Evius blinked, staring up at the Lord Inquisitor. "I beg your pardon?"

"I am a lord inquisitor, Evius, my authority is second that to only The Emperor and the High lords. What I use in the pursuit of the enemies of man is up to me alone. And besides, only one other Inquisitor knows of your existence and the true nature of The Beast, but he will not be speaking anytime soon…" Evius knew that Sheida was no longer in possession of an organic face, and the mask she wore obscured what may have been a metal facsimile, but all the same he knew that she wore a telling smile in this moment.

"What did you do?" He asked, but expected no answer, he was not wrong.

"We both have our secrets, Evius."

"Now. What will it be?" She returned the questions to him, "Will you join me? Or will you let yourself rot away in a cell forever," Almost as an afterthought she was quick to add, "-pleading for forgiveness instead of earning it?"

Silence ruled the moment, and Sheida allowed it to exist. It was Evius who broke it, his booming laugh rolled through the cell. He stood, his full height of seven feet, towering over the Inquisitor. He broke the chains about his wrist with a quick jerk and grinned. "If that is what it will take. Then it will be done."

Sheida reached out her dexterous metal hand. "Welcome aboard, Evius. May the Emperor look favorably upon us."

"May He look favorably upon us indeed." He agreed, taking the proffered hand.

…

The stint in the Star-Ship cell had been relatively short. The chains that bound the Eater released after awhile.

The Human crew had been less than happy to do so, but their leaders words made it so.

After all, there was little the Eater could do with about the second shadow.

It followed her wherever she went.

Like death.

It stood in every shadow, baleful red lenses staring out at her. Watching, calculating.

She had tried fighting it once.

She couldn't land a single blow.

It simply moved, and the Flame-Beetle broke her neck for the hundredth time.

Sometimes the Flame-Beetle would do it simply because it pleased him.

Her hands itched to kill him. Her body tensed and coiled with the desire to tear the Flame-Beetle, the 'Knight,' to pieces.

She could not, though.

Something was awry, different.

The Bonfire, it was part of him.

Like the fire-keepers, but so much more synchronized.

She learned as much when she smashed her head against the solid steel of the ships cell, scattering her brains and skull fragments across the decking.

She was wrought from the floor beneath Flame-Beetles feet, just like last time.

The third and fourth attempts were no different, but allowed her to pace about the ship so long as it stopped her from spilling her own blood and rebirthing at inopportune moments.

Her skin itched.

She yearned for her armor. The worn silver-plate and leather bindings. The chainmail undershirt, it served her for longer then her memory could accurately recall.

She missed her blades even more.

The absence of her heavy two-hander was the most disconcerting. Without it she felt almost naked. She would settle for any of her other weapons; her choice pick would be the glittering straight-sword, blessed with old magiks- she would settle for any weapon, really, so long as she could hold live steel in her hand she would be content.

She found herself drawn to the martial chambers. Perhaps it was the familiar clashing of blades.

…

Swing, thrust, step, hack, reverse and repeat.

Three strikes, one evasive, all in under a breath.

Better, but not perfection.

Evius called off the training servitors, the three battered corpse-machines bowed low before hunching over and returning to the rack of augmented training servitors.

He stood in the stone arena lined by ropes and skull motives, some of which menaced various optical capture devices which analyzed his fighting technique and made it so even mundane battle servitors could provide something of a challenge to an Astartes of his caliber.

Not much of a challenge, though.

Evius kicked a bit of broken servitor off the side of the ring; a cleaning serf or whatever served as one aboard an Inquisitors vessel would soon collect the metal limb.

He noted the opening of a door on the opposite of the chamber.

The Eater.

It looked almost fragile, garbed in nothing but serf apparel, ratty red hair haphazardly cut with a knife in some past time so it didn't fall over its eyes and obscure its vision.

It took in the chamber with quiet disinterest, eyes eventually making their way over to him.

He was out of his armor for the first time in what felt like over a century, he wore in its place a simple tunic that maintained his modesty. He could already tell that it was measuring its chances against him without his powered armor. He felt confidant enough that he could kill it without his servo-enhanced strength, he already had done so a number of times. He would have to rely on agility though, a trait he was not entirely at home with- unlike Ilitarus- Evius favored the power gifted by the Terminator Aegis, his former champion favoring the deft precision of Power Armor.

He held its gaze before returning to his routine. He need not regard it with the Culexis present; the Assassin was more then enough to halt any transgressions, even without relying on its 'abilities'.

He hefted the training glaive, its unpowered surface dull and unreflective unlike the Nemesis weaponry of the Grey Knights arsenal. Using such sacred weapons against training servitors would be both a waste of servitors and insult to the machine spirits of the weapon.

It was a Grey Knights duty to his brothers to maintain his skill at arms, such devotion required constant training and mental practice as a Grey Knights mind was also as much of a weapon as his blade and bolter. Evius found that martial practice was often enough to temper both into a keen edge. Reciting litanies of warding and devotion while running through various combat routines was also soothing. It put him at ease to lose himself in the repetition of combat- even if it was false combat.

He had spent the past three days and nights in this chamber without rest.

He knew it was unhealthy, that it was bordering masochistic, but he needed it. He needed to take his mind off of what had come upon him and the unspeakable heresy that was his predicament.

Tainted.

Corrupted.

Possessed.

He was the first, the very first.

The first Grey Knight to be afflicted by the machinations of an enemy.

He set the glaive against the rack, and selected the sturdy bulk of a training blade modeled after a praetor pattern power sword. Inquisitor Sheida had been thoughtful in supplying him the few pieces of astartes equipment that she had been in possession of, most of it was training gear given to neophytes of regular space marine chapters. Perhaps a ploy to gain his trust?

He tested the weight of the blade, nowhere near identical to his own trusted Nemesis sword- sitting idle back upon Titan in the Chapters Reliquary. He mourned its loss more than he thought he would.

He snapped his gaze up towards the Eater. It was in the second of the three arenas, one just opposite of his. It held a dulled training blade, smaller than his. It was prodding at the cogitator unit that controlled the training servitors.

It had obviously learned enough to be able to operate Imperial tech at a rudimentary level as it woke several of the dummy opponents, each servitor equipped with an array of weapon attachments and responsive pressure plates that signaled vital areas on any living humanoid xenos or heretic.

Evius moved to stop it. Mouth open partway to order the Assassin to restrain its charge.

Something stopped him.

He realized he had only seen it fight a paltry few times.

He realized he was… Curious, as to its abilities.

Evius already knew it was proficient with blade and shield, but he wanted to know, what else, and against how many.

He stepped down from his arena, not re-racking the dummy weapon. He made his way over to the primary command cogitator of the sparring chamber. He had been gifted with enough knowledge by the magos aboard the vessel to be able to manipulate the servitors to suit his higher standards of combat and override several built-in safeties that would restrict the servitors from doing any lethal damage to their user.

He unlocked all of them.

Instead of the requested three, eight of the automatons marched into the arena.

…

Funny. It thought. It had believed most of its humor stripped, hacked away, left behind with the billion other corpses that left themselves but bloody pools in ancient fields of combat. It would seem that some remnants of laughter remained, though this was not satisfaction or amusement, but sardonic bitterness, expectant contempt.

Eight corpse machines marched up to meet her, walking orderly up the steps from the curled forms of their brethren. Not any two were alike, each one different of body and face. But all were still somewhat similar, same height, mostly genderless. They each carried an assortment of weapons, each tool latched onto their back or stored within.

Cutting blades, flanged maces, expanding shields, whips and pole arms. Eight different weapons came at her. She shot the beetle-man a sour look; a heavy glare crested her features. He returned it, silent of face, but perhaps smug, amused, contemptuous.

She had no warning of the first strike, a chained flail whistled through the air and she stepped aside easily enough- though it put her in range of the electric baton that jabbed her hard in the back, frying her nerves almost before she lurched to the side, fighting for distance in a back corner of the ring,

She spun, put her front forwards in time to catch the next strike- this time a long pole studded with steel bulbs- against the flat of the training blade and redirecting it away from her body. She managed fairly enough, the few that could reach clustering in around her, driving her back against the edge of the roped ring. She wouldn't let that happen, couldn't let it happen. She ducked under the long winding cut of the same pole arm; she did not break gazes with damned Flame-Beetle.

Fine, she'll play his games.

Staying low, she brought the training blade up inside the guard of the closest, weapon still extended just past the apex- too far to bring back in time to counter the dulled edge of the blade as she rips it upwards.

The blade smashes through mummified flesh and steel, the dulled edge grinding against electronics and atrophied organs in equal measure. She heard the mechanical clicks of the machines internals- amazingly redundant, simplistic things made to be smashed apart and repaired- as something stuttered and died.

As if recognizing its own death, the servitor simply shut off, the light going out of its mechanical, glowing eyes and frame slumping. She tore the blade back out, half lodged in the vicious cut, one foot planted itself on the chest of the thing and she heaved, pushing at the same time to propel herself back and away as the seven remaining bared down on her again, she let fly with the blade- cutting left and hacking through the arm of one of the damned machines, stunting the attack before it could wind back.

She let the momentum carry her through, the tip of the sword sparking off the floor as she rotated back into stance- she had enough time to duck under the crushing metal ball of a mace and roll forwards- into the clear, spinning to her feet, blade already lashing out like a devils tongue it weaved inside the defense of a servitor and scraped against the front plate with just enough force to drive it back a step.

She had no more chance to enact any more damage when she was forced to her knees as a blade thirsted for her neck yet again, and she was forced even lower, dropping to her back as a piercing lance lunged past the servitors that surrounded her and embedded its length into the arena floor.

That was all the incentive she needed to hack through a pair of metal limbs while she was yet on level, and topple the now stuck lancer servitor, pushing with her legs she rolled through the break as the axe head of a halberd smashed down where she was put moments ago.

Too slow to react for one as quick as she, The Eater spun on a dime up into a standing position and lobbed off the head of a servitor, leaving but six, and her return stroke batted aside the blade of the fifth- she lunged forward into the clear and the head fell off its shoulders, she ducked left as the flail missed her head by inches and was forced to take the lesser of the wounds when another blade came in from the farther left and slashed across her back as she bent backwards, rounding her spine to mitigate the damage of the blow just enough for it to not be incapacity.

The Eater reversed the grip of her sword and used the new leverage as she jump-fell backwards over the blade that nearly cut her in twain to catch the offending servitor across the arms, the fulcrum point breaking with marvelous ease under the blade. Two hands fell to the floor and the servitor waited patiently for its organic cogitator to come up with an adequate response, she did not give it the time to think as she kicks the legs out from under it. On the ground once more, she sent the stumbling servitor into the crowed that always tracked her with blank eyes o f murder. She kicked to her feet again, the odds slightly more in her favor.

The Servitors would not back down, like so many things in this damned Sky-Empire, staunchly obeying its primary directives or orders or whatever drove them forwards with murder intent in their instruments. She was in the clear now. No more metal enemies with dull- empty souls to cage her, she danced.

…

Its technique was flawless. Unencumbered by any armor, it slid and flickered across the arena floor. Gaze locked onto the foremost of the servitors that lurched after her in a mocking semblance of human motion, metal feet stamping against the stone decking of the arena, , she only focused on the ones before her- but her attention was not lax to the others.

She ducked, swayed around their cuts without looking, her primary picked out- the largest threat- that with the most reach in comparison to her short weapon- she goaded the enemy into attacks, over extensions, and she would dive into the group, rolling, sliding, jumping over the swings of those that would shield it in rudimentary fashion to strike a blow against that which drew her ire- before hacking into the next opponent, the nearest enemy, driving them back and pushing herself away- she was not the insane berserker he had thought to be, but a cold and pragmatic warrior.

For now.

The last mechanical limb dropped, and the ring stood empty save for one abomination. It flicked the blade clean of oil and congealed blood. It glared at him from across the room. He stared back with just as much hate, if not more, hands clenching against the railing unconsciously, slowly crushing the metal.


	12. Act X: Cracks

They had been in the warp for about a week's time, if one were to go by Terran standard. For that time Sheida had allowed Evius his space, rarely bothering him unless if was of sufficient enough importance to warrant his informing. What counted as sufficiently important to grace his presence, Evius declared as nothing less then the full and corporeal return of the Emperor. So far, he has remained undisturbed.

Evius trained much, but slept and ate little.

It was funny, really. He had more time on his hands now than he ever did on Titan, usually spending no more than several days at a time upon that sacred moon of Saturn before War called him and whatever available elements of his Brotherhood away.

He often said that if he were ever able to come across 'spare-time' he would eagerly use it to study scripture and ancient Terran texts, to meditate on the divinity of The Emperor and His Domain.

Here he found himself with such time, and now he was doing nothing more then running himself ragged, punishing his body with such masochistic hatred that it would draw the concern of an Imperial Fist, were one present. Sweat poured off his body as he flew through another series of jagged strikes against imaginary opponents. The training servitors had all long since been destroyed by his relentless ministrations. The Techpriests had given up on repairing them days ago when he made it clear that he would not suffer any intrusions.

Things savage and ugly were growing inside him. That much he knew, and although self-destructive and unhealthy, the past seven days of sleeplessness have allowed him to place a name on the tormenters pounding at the base of his neck and pit of his gut:

Doubt, and its twin sister Shame.

He could not fight these like other fiends he was so used to; with bolt and blade and purifying psychic purges, for they had no Daemon flesh for him to rend, and he could not will them away for he knew the cause of both his doubt and shame, and it was too horrifically real.

He had felt the cold tendrils of doubt before, its inky black grip had its hold on him on that warp-lost and storm washed rock called Cor, when he was to lead a strike team into battle against an unknown foe that would soon haunt him for years to come.

Shame- shame was a new feeling that he had come to grips with only recently from within a rune-inscribed cell on Titan. Its hell was one born from his absolute and full failure to Humanity, The Emperor and his chapter. He was supposed to be the sword that was to be wielded against the Neverborn- such was The Emperors decree- the Grey Knights placard of an incorruptible and indomitable will had been shattered by his weakness.

He wanted to break something- _to break someone_. He wanted to vent this inhospitable anger that was birthed from his failings both manifest and imaginary. He wished to give it voice through the template that his kind was forged by and for: War.

He swung down with his blade, hacking an imagined daemon in twain with a single mighty blow; a grunt of exertion passed his lips, there was no longer any art to his swings. The blade slipped from his hands- the accrual of blood from raw skin never given a chance to heal through arduous drilling slicked the hilt of the blade, and its plasteel length embedded itself into the arenas stonework floor.

He grabbed the hilt, and with a heavy yank he pulled the metal from the floor, but the sound of grinding steel against steel was not of his work. "I thought I made it clear," He growled, "that I was not to be disturbed." He fixed his gaze on the barricaded entrance. The bulkhead had been drawn down over the automated sliding steel doors; a heavy metal pole was wedged firmly into the crack of the bulkhead, jamming it in place.

An industrial grade servitors' arm forced up the bulkhead, his pole coming away in two pieces as the hydraulics kicked in and the bulkhead retracted normally with the obstruction cleared. An adept entered, nervous and hunched of back, followed resolutely by a techpriest and quartet of servitors, two of which bore weapons. He felt as the techpriest did. Neither of them wanted this interruption.

"Many pardons, Brother Capt-"

" _Former._ " He snapped, fist clenching around the hilt of the dulled blade, a fresh gout of blood slid down to the floor from his ruined palm, the larramen cells within him struggling to combat the constant abrasion. The adept meekly bowed, wishing that they could melt away into their robes. "M-many, _many_ pardons, my Lord," Hiccupped the Adept. "The Lord Inquisitor calls for you, and…"

"Is it thoroughly pressing?" He snapped, already knowing the answer.

"I-I believe so… My lord…"

"I will be there momentarily." He said, stepping down from the stone arena for the first time in over two hundred and twenty hours.

…

Evius took the effort to make himself presentable, finding a new set of robes and scraping the filth from his body before making his way through the winding hallways of the Inquisitors ship. He needed no help in direction; he had already memorized the ships layout- not all that different from one of the chapters strike cruisers, though somewhat smaller.

The secondary command center, and in some cases arguably the primary, was a vessels Tactica center, the centralized hub of all operations not imposing on naval combat operations, those were reserved for the bridge of the vessel. He found it unsurprising that the Eater was also present, the black shadow of the Culexis steadily observing it from a corner. Evius and the Eater were intertwined. Where one went, the other followed inevitably.

"You may be seated." Sheida motioned. Evius glanced down at the chair, and back at the Inquisitor.

"With respect, I think it would be most unwise for me to do so." He hinted at his Huge frame.

"True." The Inquisitor may have smiled, but her metal figure hid such displays of emotion.

One of the many adepts coughed pointedly, Sheida's returned her attention to the holo-projector in the center of the cramped tactica room, faint blue and green lines mapping a picture of the eastern fringe of the galaxy.

"The Hakuul Cascade," Evius noted dryly. "I was present during its cleansing."

"I thought you would recognize it," Sheida nods; with a flick of her hand she motions for the adept to begin. "You recall that the Cascade has been under the influence of the Ruinous Powers for an unprecedented century. Its eight systems held tightly in the grasp of several chaos warbands on the dawning of the forty-third millennium. It was only recently within the past one hundred and fifty years that the system has been reclaimed by several crusade elements, a detachment of your Brothers included."

"Aye," Evius nods, recalling the brutal street-by-street firefights and swirling melee's that made up the entirety of the cleansing of Harkuul. Cultists and heretics led by chaos marine demagogues, the enthralled humans throwing their lives away so that their masters could strike a telling blow. They were not the worst the corrupted hives had to offer, however. Flesh melded with flesh, limbs twisted together, corrupting magic's sewing blankets of skin over rancid beasts…

The Pict shifted, zooming into the cosmic map past drifting stars until it focused onto the central system, colored an uneasy red.

"The system capital of Harkuul has always maintained a tenuous relationship with the Imperium, it was part of the reason why Harkuul fell in the first place. With their refusal to order the System defense fleets to action in response of chaos warbands encroaching on their worlds, their loyalties were found wanting and the seeds of corruption found within them."

"The Planetary governors and sector lord were deeply corrupted, yes, I remember, you need not recount old history." Evius felt his impatience growing, getting the better of him with his current predicament. While still not used to the presence of The Eater, he was growing to 'tolerate' its unique psychic signature; it was the Culexis that drew his ire more then anything now. He felt its abhorrent absence of self, eating at the corners of his mind, leaching away his soul little by little. If he were to lose himself, he was sure that his soul would be pulled into the black void that was the core of the Pariah and be destroyed.

Sheida ignored his remark, flicking a metal finger through the holographic projection, expanding the image so that it once again encompassed the entirety of the cascade. "The Scouring of Harkuul Primus was not thorough, the cleansing cut short with the onset of Abbaddons latest crusade. The Inquisition settled for orbital bombardment of the primary hive-spire as sufficient enough to quell any further uprisings, but as to be expected it was inadequate, even with you and your brothers intervention in the end." Evius remained silent, his and his brother's actions saw to the execution of the system lord and the puppet governor, both of them equally powerful chaos sorcerers under the thrall of a warp daemon. Their lives came to an end upon the edge of Ilitarus' blade, the daemon fled as soon as its minions were vanquished.

"Corruption has taken root in the Cascade once more, Evius." Sheida summarized, Evius had suspected as much, mortal man, while capable of great things, was still mortal and irritably prone to the vile influences of Chaos. "Inquisitorial agents within the Cascade have found evidence of resurgent cults resembling the ones who had perpetrated the original fall of Harkuul. We are to find the source of the cults, and excise them from the cascade for the last time." She closed the projection, the cogitators that powered it finally allowed to rest with a relived fading hum of deactivation. "Your experience in your prior dealing with the Harkuul cults will be instrumental in this."

Evius sighed, shaking his head. "With respect inquisitor, I have my reservations about my involvement in any 'inquiry.'"

"Really? How so if I may ask."

"I am…" He stopped himself, "-was… a Grey Knight, the Hammer that banishes the Daemon in open combat, I am no inquisitor sleuthing for mystery and tracking down the seeds of corruption."

"Perhaps so," Sheida acquiesced with a metallic laugh, "but bare in mind that there are those who are already in place to do such things in our stead. You are required in that you are as you say- 'The Hammer that Banishes the Daemon'."

While silently relived to hear this- perusal with mortals as not his strong suit- Evius also dreaded the thought of waiting even more. "I am loath to be idle, Inquisitor. It is against my nature."

"Peace, Evius." It was apparent that the Lord Inquisitor had lost none of her ability to read the hidden emotions of others, despite her metal form. "You more than anyone should know that no Inquisitorial investigation is ever free of complications." The mechanical Inquisitor now turned her gaze to The Eater, almost contemplatively.

"And as for you…" She began. "You require a name." The Eater made no effort to return her stare. Like always, The Eater was silent, absent save for a faint incline of the head in the Inquisitors general direction.

Evius immediately ticked off a list of fitting titles for the Beast, and would have gladly shared them, had such petulance been befitting of a former captain of the Grey Knights.

"I give you the title of Arumot. Old Merikavin for 'Outsider.' I find it fitting for one such as you, would you agree, Evius?"

"I will refrain from answering, Inquisitor."

"Fair enough, I suppose. But I have called you here for more than a simple briefing. Your quarters await, the brig is hardly a fitting home." Sheida led them from the tactica and into the narrow halls of the ship. A winding route led them to a more spacious room with rows of lockers against walls, Evius speculated this was where the more 'formal' retinue for an inquisitor was bedded. He saw Stormtrooper apparel stowed under several benches, suits of heavy black carapace armor hanging from open lockers and beside them several solemn and pale men who glanced up only briefly as the trio made their way through- the Assassin followed unseen by all, only felt. Some made the sign of the Aquila, but none spoke. He could hear the sound of high-powered lasguns being fired off a room adjacent to this one. Overall, it was a disciplined display of an inquisitors power.

One hallway down, and a quick right showed something far less professional. The door hissed open, and immediately Evius was faced with an ultimatum.

"You thrice damned count! You Throne lost beggar!"

Evius tracked the trajectory of a thrown boot -guard issue- laces flailing in the air, the scuffed and worn tread, and how it was flying towards him at a remarkable speed. He took a microsecond to contemplate its current velocity, and found himself in a dilemma. It was flying at him, that much was certain, and it was of no question that he could catch it or bat it aside.

But did he really _want_ to?

He decided, that he did not.

With a casual slip to the left, he turned as it sailed past, spinning toe over heel, and directly into the unsuspecting face of 'Arumot'. The Eater was groggy, perhaps tired or bored, and in no mood for any activity aside from its supposed hibernation. Perhaps the long exposure to the Culexis- that even now stalked their shadows- was having adverse affects on it, perhaps the lack of combat? If that was the reason, then he too knew how it felt. For whatever reason it only looked up at the last moment, and stared at the brown leather thing that now threatened it. Only a quick, muffled shout was its response as The Eater found itself bowled over back onto the metal decking at it impacted its face.

The swell of absolute contempt and satisfaction that rose within Evius threatened to overwhelm him. He focused his immense will, crushing the laugh that roiled within him, instead reciting the catechism of repugnance within his mind- but even he could not fully hold back the rictus smirk that spread across his face.

' _It knows.'_ He knew that almost at once, the wild and savage glare The Eater sent his way was almost physical in its intensity. Blood trickled from a clearly broken nose but it made no effort to staunch it as it reached up and snapped the cartilage back into proper position, letting the proof of its hate flow down its face at it focused that piercing glare.

A fumbling from his front drew his attention back again, and a motley band greeted him. At the center of this commotion was a supremely well-dressed man with what could only be a guardsman standing across from him. It was clear that they were the focus of whatever caused the raucous. Sheida coughed, it came out sounding metallic and rough. Evius wondered if she even needed to breath. Only now entering from a back entrance came two others, a young woman and a small child, evidently they came to investigate the cause of disturbance. Sheida raised a hand in weary greeting, she was clearly used to such behavior.

"Allow me to introduce my long serving comrades, Sergeant Gyalt, Makino, Sister Tyana, and Lord Arto." Evius observed each of the gathered as they were introduced. They were not what many would expect given the reputation of the inquisition, especially that of an inquisitors retinue.

Sergeant Gyalt was a heavily built man, born with bronzed muscles and like most veteran soldiers of the Guard; he had a warriors face marred with scars telling of close encounters with shrapnel and the blades of the enemy. Hard, chocolate brown eyes stared up at him, and in those eyes Evius saw a deep mistrust. Gyalt was easily the most physically imposing of the group, and therefore stood out, but it was not his size alone that marked him out from the rest. Instead of wearing the black and red of the inquisition the man still proudly wore the faded and patched uniform of his former regiment, a sandy brown and white thing that had doubtlessly seen countless suns on far away planets.

Evius was immediately aware of the smallest member of the group; Makino. Even before entering the chambers, the psychic pressure molding around the diminutive boy was warning enough. Small: around four feet and just balancing on the edge of five he could be no more than ten if one was being conservative. Dressed in the familiar trappings of an imperial sanctioned psyker, the long white coat was admittedly several sizes too big. The pale, blond boy would be more at home in a Scholum than in an inquisitors retinue. Wide, blue green eyes stared silently up at him, and he felt pain at the memories those eyes invoked. He had seen so many like them before on chaos stained planets. The survivors- those that had stayed sane, those who had looked up at him and his Brothers, calling them saviors, tears streaming down bloodied faces as they saw their salvation.

He remembered how he leveled his stormbolter at these faces, reciting the litanies of purification and-

He pried his eyes away from the boy and to the Sister of Battle.

She could be called beautiful, and rugged. A tarnished gem. Pale pallid ivory skin with proud pink scars told the price of long exposure to power armor for those not of Astartes caliber. Her hair was white and cut short, the evidence of a helmet.

Her eyes- a vibrant blue- mimicked the boys with their innocence, but unlike Makino, these were not a pure innocence. They were the eyes of a zealot who shielded their mind behind burning faith. She saw him gaze at her and bowed her head.

Arto did not share the belligerent distrustfulness of Gyalt, the awe of Makino, or the reverence of Tyana. He was a curiosity. A slender, gangly, middle aged man- a Rouge Trader by the nature of his gaudy apparel- inclined his head to directly meet the gaze of Evius. Old silvery eyes still bright with the mischievous light of youth were at odds with greying hair and a salt and pepper beard.

"Who's the new blood, Inquisitor? 'Arto' spoke up, enterprising a step forwards he glanced from Evius to Arumot and back again.

"Associates of mine," She answered. "They'll be joining My Retinue for the foreseeable Future." Arumot was the first to lose interest, the predetors gate returning to its walk, it made to back out of the room, a steely fist shot out and arrested its escape, Evius glared down at it, a look telling what he refused to say ' _I will not suffer this alone._ '

"I knew Inquisitors had connections, I myself have some as well, but to have a space marine indebted to you…" The Trader whistled, a high-pitched thing that drew the Eaters silent condemnation. "Does the armor come separately?"

"I am no bartered prize," Seethed Evius, his voice coming low and menacing.

"So as you say, Lord…" Arto trailed off, hands raised in pacification.

"Evius…" Evius finished, trying to relax. He wished to be back in the Arena.

"Grand to make your aquantance, Evius." Arto nodded, proffing his hand. Evius stared for a moment, Unsure as how to proceed

Sheida left him like that; her robed figure turned and stalked out of the room, with her went the assassin, as she was its charge. With her gone and the eyes of strangers eclipsing his world, the former Captain of the Grey Knights realized something as a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He had never felt abandoned before, even when he was shackled by his own brothers and sat in a containment cell with only The Eater at his side for company. With a hand offered to him by a simple mortal man, did Evius finally feel alone in the dark.


	13. Act XI: Tempered

Space marines do not require sleep as normal humans do, but they are not bereft of it entirely. After extended hours awake, simply shutting down certain parts of their brain ceases to work and true sleep is required. Evius dreaded this while aboard the inquisitors' vessel, as twin flames plagued his dreams. He would drift through the stygian of his mind, unprotected and exposed to the void, and at the center of his dreams he felt it: An Ark.

He cast his gaze through the haze of his mind and would spot it- far off in the middle distance, yet growing closer, every imagined heartbeat pulsing in time with its waves. As it washed out with its invisible pull and dragged him closer. The heat would grow and his skin would redden, then blister and flake, until it would erupt into flames as he gathered his will to keep away from the roiling inferno that now sat at the center of his consciousness.

As his eyes melted and his muscles fried on charcoal bones, he would finally scream.

He awoke on his simple cot with a slow start, his mind still pulsing with the fading echo of that infernal fire that now dominated his minds eye when he lapsed into slumber. It was not restful sleep, but it served its purpose regardless, the mental exhaustion still pervaded his mind but he banished it to the back of his head.

" _The Servants of the Inquisitor will ready themselves, and make to the bridge."_ A servitors hollow voice rolled out of the ships loudspeakers, the Vox system giving the otherwise lifeless voice a sense of emotion that was only gifted by the nature of the ships mighty machine spirit. _"Realspace Translation, in thirty-nine minutes. The Emperor Protects."_

Evius rolled his shoulders, stretching slightly before dawning a robe left to him by the ships menials. Stepping out of his quarters he walked down the length of hallway lined with similar doors. He entered what amounted to the locker room where the others stowed their miscellaneous equipment and where he first encountered who would amount to being his 'comrades'. He found the Rouge Trader Arto, and the Guardsman Gyalt as its current occupants.

He stopped for a moment, studying the Guardsman who now wore armor and weaponry as well as a wide brimmed grox-leather hat that he thought would be more at home upon the head of an agriworld farmer. His sandy brown uniform was now overlain by light a light flak vest with webbing strung over its surface, several smoke grenades were clipped to it, while on his belt he wore several packs along with Frag and Krak grenades. The Guardsman was just about to sling several bandoliers loaded with what seemed to be scattershot shells over his shoulder when Evius stepped into the room. Arto paid him no attention, fixated with his own apparel, but Gyalt stopped his perpetrations and eyed Evius with that same mistrustful glare from when he first met him.

"Hail, Guardsman." Evius decided that cordiality was the best route despite the obvious hostilities, and was rewarded with Gyalt lessening in his apparent tension. "Hail, Marine." He replied, but offered nothing more. For a moment silence passed between marine and guardsman.

The number of various guard regiments and planetary defense forces scattered about the Imperium were neigh uncountable, but Evius had made it a priority of his to remember each and every one he came across in his battles against the Daemonic spawn of Chaos. He could recall a great number of them and their distinct warrior cultures- pedigrees of their home world. Despite this nearly encyclopedic knowledge Evius could not place the Guardsman standing before him among any of those he had encountered. It was an easy enough conversation-starter.

"Your trappings are unknown to me, guardsman." Evius remarked, staring at the bronzed regimental pin on the guardsman's shoulder- two parallel thunderbolts piercing a mountain, "Might I ask from which Regiment you herald from?"

"Fendoras Finest, eight-hundred and thirty-sixth Mobile Infantry." Gyalt replied, he closed a fist and thumped it against his chest in salute to the name of his old regiment, "Blessed on the sands, and in the eyes of the Emperor. Honored saviors of Caltix, Hedoraz, Atrimus, and victors of the Caladith crusade."

"Best not to get him started," The Rouge Trader made his presence known, idly inspecting some piece of metal and polishing it with a silken handkerchief until it gleamed. "He'll go on for hours about shiny medals and stuffed heroism."

Gyalt bristled at this remark. "What would you know about glory? Your but a pirate and swindler." It did not take an adept to see that these two shared history. The Guardsman glared down at the Trader who returned the withering stare with a look of contempt. Evius took a minor step backwards, and let the storm in front of him brew. He had no desire in becoming part of this, but he felt compelled to watch all the same.

"Oh, I know a great many things. I know that there is more to warfare than just smashing in the head of some lowlife cultist or disreputable Xeno, resorting to violence may cut out an infection but it is in cunning that you avoid the infestation from sprouting in the first place."

"You have experience in such matters?" Evius found himself asking.

"I have two lifetimes worth." Arto stood up from the bench, buckling the straps to his boots and stowing the bauble. "I've run interference for seven different Inquisitors, two Lord Generals, three separate Astartes Chapters, and more Knightly houses then I care to remember. I've provided them all with information on backroom dealings between warlords, ferried their troops and munitions, made it so trading houses suffered minor setbacks to their shipping lanes and lacked the required funds to expedite wars in the name of their false prophets. The Imperium has wasted uncountable lives and resources in quelling minor conflicts that could have been prevented by the deft placement and reallocation of men and money, I have seen entire sectors embroiled in conflicts do to the stipulations of trade agreements and once I've even seen an entire planet suffer Exterminatus due to some uppity noble falling short on his shipment of grain to segmentum command and consequently summoning forth a chaos warband." He eyed Gyalt speculatively. "Even a simple lineman should know that to engage in war pursued without a reason is folly."

"Enough of this," The Guardsman scoffed, promptly turning on his heel and storming out of the room. Evius found himself alone with the Trader.

"Is it necessary to antagonize him?" Evius asked the Rouge Trader. "More likely than not his crosshairs will find your back if you continue with your belittling."

Alto shook his head, removing a studded belt with a scabbard and holster from his trunk. "Gyalt may be a simpleton but his moral code is unbreakable. He may hate me more then he rages at Abbadon himself, yet so long as I stand for the Imperium he would die for me and any other upon this team." He looped the belt around his waist, and fastened it tight. "And, I suppose I would do the same if it came to such." He sighed. "I pray that I am wrong, of course. Death is rarely profitable."

…

The bridge was similar to the many he has seen before on the chapters' battlebarges and cruisers; although this one was significantly smaller. It was very much the same in function, with the captain standing at a raised dais at the center of the bridge, various screens and adepts surrounding them. Mind scrubbed serfs flitted about beneath, tending to their duties along sided red robed acolytes of mars.

He saw that the Sister, the Psyker and the Guardsman were already there alongside the Inquisitor; he nodded to Shieda in greeting. He was hesitantly surprised when he also noticed The Eater, now unwillingly titled Arumot-, though everything to do with it required none-too-gentle persuasion- standing aside, dressed in the same plain clothing bequeathed to her upon arrival. The Culexus charged with the enforcement of the Eaters Compliance was present, though Evius assumed only he, the Inquisitor, and the Eater were fully aware of it. It hid in plain sight, at the back of the bridge, watching patiently for any way-ward attack by the Eater, any attempt on the Inquisitors life would be halted in less than an instant.

Evius did not know how long the Assassin would remain in the inquisitors arsenal, he guessed it would remain until Sheida believed the Eater to be no longer a threat and fully acclimated.

Arto stepped out from behind him and waved a casual salute to the Guardsman in jest, and one more formal to Shieda. The Inquisitor ran augmetic eyes over the assembled and Evius could tell she was inwardly amused. He did not belive that he would be so amused to find himself leading such a motley crew into hells-waters and then be expected to row himself out again. He would be enraged.

"Now that we are all gathered, I suppose its time that we begin our sojourn." She turned and flicked her hand towards the bridges currently unshielded windows, showing a dark cluster of stars, and slowly coming into view from behind the blinding penumbra of the systems sun; a cluster of planets and attending stations. "Welcome to the Harkuul Cascade."

…

"…twenty-six billion five-hundred and thirty six million eighty hundred and eighty six thousand three hundred and four point oh four human lives call the Harkuul prime home. Of these we can account for a thirtieth being of the mutant population, as annual under hive purges monitored by the Adeptus Arbites have declined by forty percent in the past seven Terran years…"

Evius did not enjoy briefings. He stood silent and attentively enough, but he felt his ire boiling upwards as he continued to listen to the relatively young logician adept drone on about the smallest and seemingly pointless facets of Harkuul.

He was not used to pre-deployment monologues that were not grandiose prayers or oaths of vengeance. As a grey knight, all relevant information was quickly dissimulated into their minds via hypnotherapy and subliminal implantation, a process that took a matter of minutes and left the marine with time to tend to his wargear, and pray.

He had honestly always assumed that normal humans were given their information in a similar- though perhaps not as refined- manner. To be expected to sit through such drivel and remember it…

He had been callus in the remembrance of the battlefield tales of common line infantry forgetting crucial orders, in misinterpreting their mission priorities- no longer. It already took a superhuman effort to remain cognizant on his part- and he was Astartes. He could no longer burden the mortal guardians of the imperium with his scorn if they were to fall to sloth during such occasions as these, much like Arumot had done almost fifteen minutes after the briefings start. Ruddy hair falling over her eyes as her head slumped forwards. Evius measured her breathing, shallow and fitful, not fully asleep, ready to snap into awareness at the slightest provocation.

He looked at Gyalt, the Guardsman of the eight hundred and thirty-sixth Mobile Infantry Regiment, colloquially known as 'Fendoras Finest.' He was amazed by the mortals' tenacity. He had sat through the briefing so far without so much as an impatient muttering or disgruntled roll of the shoulders. The Sister did not share his patience it would seem, and the boy clearly did not- his peat blonde head slumped over and leaning against the armored form of the sororitas. Arto was no less affected and made no attempts to hide his ennui either, an ornate knife drawn from his boot and used to pick his nails clean of any accrual of dirt.

Evius was certain the rouge trader would not find any, he had already watched the man methodically pick under each and every nail at least five times in the past three hours, and was well on his way to watching the progress of his sixth when he realized that he had been watching a man pick his fingernails clean for the past one and a half hours.

"Is this at all relevant to our mission, honored adept?" Evius rumbled from the back of the small holorium, the superimposed live holo-feed of Harkuul Prime slowly rotating above the projector module at the front of the room. At the sound of his voice, Arumot snapped her head up, snorting slightly in waking surprise, she looked around, irritated, and it then promptly slumped forwards again once she deemed them to still be in the same room as before, with nothing to kill.

'Yet…' Evius added internally, if this briefing continued, the Adept might find himself with a subsequent loss of limbs. Gyalt looked back over his shoulder at the Grey Knight in obvious disapproval, the Guardsman took briefings fairly seriously it would seem, a quick glance at the others ennui showed that Gyalt was alone in this regard.

Although the others seem keen on voicing their own qualms of such a lengthy briefing, the adept does not cease, sending a withering glare across the assembled, and turning back to the hololith. Evius begins debating internally the pros and cons of uprooting the archaic machine and hurling across the room in a fit of frustration. His reason speaking harshly against such actions, and quickly losing to the contempt that began to further deluge his mind with every useless kernel of errata that the adept spewed forth from that abomination he calls a mouth-

"That will be enough, Caldrious." Sheida speaks for the first time from her secluded corner, twin red orbs peering out from behind her mask and under her cowl. "Time is running short, and we must be off within the next hour. Please, skip to the essentials."

There is an audible sigh in relief from Arto as the still scowling logician adept swipes his hand over the control panel to the hololith and Harkuul is replaced by the face of an aging man whose features still remain noble and patriarchal even in his later years. "Lord Governor Maltoris Skayvus Verus Ildora the three hundred and thirty sixth, Master of House Ildora. He is the man who first sent contact to the agents left behind on Harkuul after the first scouring, telling them of a deep corruption that had begun in the lowest depths of the outer hives of Kaxius- the capital Hive of Harkuul Primus."

"What of his Loyalty? Such politikers as he can never be fully trusted." Arto questions, speaking for the first time since the briefing began, he too seemed to be relived at the more paced turn the meeting had taken on.

"His loyalty is without question, and has been verified personally." Sheida answered. "His actions in stalling the planetary governor and supporting Nobel's have kept the Harkuul cascade from further collapse- actions and politicking that I shall spare you the details of. All you need be privy to is that he can be trusted- for now. No man is without his price." Arto nodded at this.

"It will be a rather simple procedure, God-Emperor willing," Sheida continued, "Maltoris will help us find the rot within the nobility of Kaxius, and from there we shall trace it back to the core. If at all possible, the Arbites can expunge what we are not required for." Sheida deactivated the Hololith, the ambient lights of the room coming online shortly after with a dull flicker. "We shall enter orbit of Harkuul Primus in another three hours, I suggest you make yourselves ready."

…

The inquisitors' armory was nowhere near extensive as the grand armoriums of Titan, but it did not need to be and reach the same level of effectiveness. Inquisitor's waged war mostly in secret, weaving their way through houses and courtyards, sniffing out corruption and dissent with a refined skill known by the name of subtlety. Inquisitors did not take to the field of open battle unless absolutely necessary; they had pawns to do that for them.

There was a variety of lasguns available; most of them were the mass-produced Cadian pattern though there was no small number of the Elysian pattern burst carbines. There were also the heavier backpack powered las rifle variants- Hotshot Lasguns, they were called, he was familiar with the bulky heavy rifles normally used by the Elite of the Imperial Guard; he had lost several Brothers to their supercharged crimson red beams when he and a strike squad were sent to put down a chaos cult that had taken hold in a scholeum. The chaos corrupted Stormtroopers had made a dark pact with the daemons of Tzeentch, and in doing so had foreseen the grey-knights arrival, the deadly crossfire scythed down half of the strike squad when they had disembarked from the drop pod, the las shots cut through ceramite with disgusting ease. Only he in his terminator armor remained immune to the punishing red rays.

He stepped past the 'flashlights,' a term coined long ago by an executed guardsman if the stories are to be believed. The next racks of weapons were solid-shot armaments, the oldest and widespread mechanical weapon of man. It is not known when the first gun was invented, that history was lost to time, nor was it known what the first guns looked like, though there are many mechanists and planets that claim to have the knowledge of the first weapons of man.

Simple in design and remarkably rugged, no Autogun was ever the same. Almost every planet in the Imperium manufactured their own types of Autogun and Stub weapons with varying levels of sophistication. The Autogun was perhaps one of the very few mechanical devices that the Adeptus Mechanicus didn't oversee the sanction of, and in truth it is theorized impossible for the Machine men of Mars to do so.

The Imperium is a vast and violent Empire, weapons are in constant demand, the Lasrifle is universal, but even it is only so numerous. Autoguns are often the last line of defense for primitive worlds. If their creation was to be taken from the planets that spawned them, and given solely to the Mechanicus, it is incalculable how many planets would fall.

Much like the chop-shop vehicles modified on the front lines by the Imperial Guard, the Adeptus Mechanicus sanctioned the countless Autogun designs with a wave of incense and roll of purity seals.

The Mechanicus of course has its own variety of Autoguns, but like most things made by the Mechanicum they are relics of the past. While phenomenally powerful and esoteric, they do not understand- or try to understand- how they function. This leaves only a paltry few remaining, never to be seen again. But for coinsures of stub weapons within the Imperium, it is not these that they desire, for they are not Velshin Autoguns.

Velsha is an old world, with a lofty pedigree, for it is one of the first worlds to bend knee to the Emperor in the earliest days of the Great Crusade. It has changed little since those days; its surface is covered by hives, while orbital platforms and stations block out the sky. It is of little value to the wider Imperium by itself, for it is its many moons swathed in farmland and algae seas that deliver tribute to the Administratum. There is only one thing that Velsha itself provides, and for a select few:

Guns. For the Inquisition.

Worth more than a fleet of warships, Velshin made Auto weapons are prized treasures for they reflect a fragment of the lost knowledge of the Dark Age of Technology, and much like that lost science of the Ancients, Velsha is secretive and dangerous.

The Imperium has exiled the Mechanicus from the Velshin system, not a single tech-acolyte of Mars can be found there. The Red Priests nearly destroyed the Ancient world in a fit of hysterical mania when they learned that an unsanctioned planet was producing such high-grade weaponry. The secret war over the fate of Velsha nearly caused the Mechanicus to schism from the Imperium after an inquisitorial kill-team destroyed an Ark Mechanicus sent to annihilate Velsha. The grand ship was broken irreparably and its attendant fleet faced the full might of the powerful Velshin system defense fleet.

The Mechanicus was enraged by this loss, but their wrath was to come to no fruition as the Echlisiarchy was just as equally enraged by the thought of Velsha being destroyed- a holy world that The God Emperor of Mankind Himself set foot on- the Mechanicus found itself facing an equally large and perhaps even more powerful and influential institution. If the Mechanicus were to separate from the Imperium, there would be no High Lords there to protect Mars from the wrath of the Echlisiarchy and its trillion upon trillion followers.

Evius removed the sleek pistol from the rack- a Velshin manufactured stub-pistol, deceptively light and compact, it possessed no visible ejection port and the black surface reflected no light. The weapon unfolded further in his grip, expanding to match the way he held it so it felt entirely natural. It reminded him of the weapons of the Vindicare, and it came to no surprise that Velsha had ties to that particular temple after the Mechanicus Incident. It bore no ornamentation. That was how he knew it to be Velshin made, it was also the only Velshin weapon on this ship- even the Inquisition had difficulty procuring such guns.

He didn't like it.

It was one of the only weapons that he could fit in his massive grip, and only because of the strange techno-arcana that made up the machine spirit of the weapon. That was not enough for him to be fond of the weapon however, not when he could only procure three sickle shaped magazines of matte-black caseless bullets. It had limited effective ammunition; the rounds it used were supposedly able to pierce through force fields and heavy armor all while remaining entirely silent. The other munitions it had at its disposal were mundane auto-pistol rounds; the simple squash headed forty-five caliber, cased rounds that the more prolific of Auto-pistols used, the techno arcana of the stub-pistol made it so they could be used as well. This versatility surely would win the favor of any warrior, but to Evius it was not enough.

It was not a selective fire twin barreled mag-launched armor mounted platform firing gyro stabilized self propelled mass-reactive diamantine tipped sanctified forty-millimeter explosive rounds.

It was not a storm bolter.

He placed the pistol back within its case.

Walking further down the isle he removed a heavy stubber from a rack, the mundane and bulky thing was usually fitted onto Leman Russ cupolas or tripods, he did not notice the weight. He fumbled with several boxy magazines of belt ammunition before moving on, he didn't bother looking at the Guard-issue bolter weapons; they were not astartes grade things. So he went with the Heavy Stubber, crude, blunt, reliable, just under a bolter in terms of raw firepower, it was an acceptable enough weapon for him.

But it still was not a storm bolter. _His_ , storm bolter.

A sling had been fitted to the heavy stubber, the tough woven strap allowed him to sling it over his shoulder as he continued along the armory, eyes cast over the walls of weapons- each one more unsatisfying than the last. It came now to the most painful part however, as he gripped a chainsword, the weight unfamiliar in his hands and all the more painful for it.

It was more like a _dagger_ in comparison to him, three feet of serrated chain mockingly small in his grip. He set the thing back and removed a simplistic power-sword, one of the mass produced things seen on every battlefield by Guard sergeants and Commissars. The inquisitorial variant was slightly more balanced, but still just as alien to him, he couldn't wield this effectively, he was more apt to hack one of his own limbs off.

The power maul was too weighted and brash, holding it was more like holding a lengthy brick.

The whip he laughed at, scoffing at the thought of such a thing ever being considered a weapon.

The chain axe reminded him bitterly of Khornate berserkers, he passed the polished silver-black weapons without looking back.

It went on like this for nearly an hour before Sheida found him standing with an Eviscerator chain-blade in one hand, a look of weary concentration across his brow, while in the other hand he held a crusader great sword, usually reserved for the personal bodyguards of the inquisition.

"Finding everything favorable?" She asked regardless, already knowing his answer.

Evius glanced up at her, setting down the crusader blade. "Need I truly answer?" He replied, thumbing the activation rune of the heavy chainsword and listening to the whine of the weapons engine for a moment before cutting it. "You expect me to fight with such _toys_?" He motioned to his current gathered utilities of war, the hulking heavy stubber and a selection of grenades.

"I know it is equipment you are not used to," Sheida began, "but you must make do for now with what I can supply." She held up a bundled parcel roughly five feet in length, it was wrapped in what Evius recognized as prayer vellum. "Although when it comes to your desire for a perfect blade, I may have the answer." She held out the wrapped object, and let the wrapping fall away. "For I believe this belongs to you?"

Nearly five feet of molecularly straightened pure adamantium polished to a reflective finish with a monomolecular edge never looked so beautiful in all of his life. He recognized the runic high gothic engravings almost at once, each one perfectly inlayed; an entire catechism wrapped the length of the pommel. With a reverence usually reserved for holding aloft the idols of the God Emperor, Evius reached out and grasped the handle of a blade he had known since his ascension to the rank of Justicar. The Psycoreactive gems along the hilt fit snugly into the palm of his hand as he ran a finger along the edge, careful not to cut himself. "How in the name of the Throne did you…" He breathed, not wholly expecting an answer.

"A brother of yours pulled me aside before we left. He made it very clear that this went to you."

"Ilitarus…"

"Your Brothers have abandoned you as you think they have." Sheida nodded, seemingly pleased as Evius turned his familiar blade over in his hands, the balance, the temper, it was all there. He could even feel the spark of his soul within the sword calling out to him and he answered it with a surge of psychic power that ignited the engravings of the blade. A shower of gold and blue light illuminated the armory before dying back down into a pale resonance that flickered about the sword. "Yes," He nodded, a quiet, content smile on his lips. "This will do nicely…"

He was ready.


	14. Act XII: Ordos

…

The shuttle was cramped, and Evius felt that he was blamed for this.

The shuttle was a lighter craft, meant for rapid transport from ship to shore and ship again, it sat six comfortably, and if pressed, it could carry eight- though its performance would undoubtedly suffer.

It was not meant to carry a Soroitas, Guardsman, Rouge Trader, Psyker Child, Inquisitor, and an Abomination- all fully armed and armored.

It most certainly was not meant to carry these individuals and their wargear alongside a former captain of the Grey Knights in full carapace plate with a weapon that usually required a full guardsmen weapons team to operate, along with its subsequent ammunition.

The gifts of Titan only extended so far as to the familiar weight of his Nemesis force sword, which rested on his back even now. Sheathed in a sturdy plasteel scabbard slung across the back of a resized set of Stormtrooper carapace armor. The black ceramic plates were nothing like the distant memory of his Terminator Aegis and even further memory of power armor. There was no strength behind the carapace plates, no machine spirit whispering into the back of his mind or thrum of power with each step. There was no history of combat, no warrior pedigree, no ornamentation, only a sheet of hardened plastic buckled onto other sheets of plasteel.

Although there was little he could do in the ways of modifying, it did not mean he was fully without a means of alteration. In the few hours before departure, he had taken to it with sacred oil and pick; the result was born for all to see. Engraved ivory oil spirals and runes adorned his armor, interlacing and merging in order to form fantastic geometric shapes. These were oaths to abjure and cast out the Daemon, and wards to protect against the malign influences of the warp. Normally applied to the Aegis, these were the holy and sacred writs of his chapter. It was not much in the grand scheme of things, the Aegis armor of the Grey Knights was constructed through the sacrifice of Witches and Psykers, and consecrated before Idols of the Emperor, what he wore now was just mass-produced armor from a forgeworld conveyor. Despite all that, with the power of his mind, he hoped it to be enough.

The Guardsman spoke first, voicing his odium. "Does he really need to be with us for this?" Gyalt grunted reproachfully looking pointedly at Evius. "We're apt to be put to the sands if this damned bucking grox of a craft keeps up at this pace."

"I trust the pilots abilities." Sheida answered, though Evius thought he read a sense of nervous tension- most likely an error born of her augmetic vox implant.

Seemingly the calmest among them was the boy, aside from the Sister who shared his faith. Contrasting both the boy and the sister, Arumot had a steel grip on the bench, not trusting the strap harness slung across her shoulders to protect her.

The Eater was dressed in crisp fatigues matching that of the bodyguards of the inquisition, though her armor was flak vestments instead of Carapace plate. She wore but a blade strapped to her waist in a dull grey scabbard, and had been forcibly given a las-pistol. While blades in the imperium were a mark of excellence and status, having that- and only that- would draw unwanted attention should they venture into the hive in stealth once they saw to their housing.

Evius shifted uncomfortably, he could feel the accusing gazes of his new 'companions' on his person as a physical manifestation. It was enough to drive him to speaking. "It is common for those going to do battle to recite the hymns native to their station." He began. "I myself know a great many from my chapter, several of them I can recall being spoken during the original Harkuul Scouring." He looked about the cabin, expectant for at least some to be vaguely interested in the sacred rites of the most mysterious of Space Marines chapters to have existed- all pardons to the Dark Angels and Blood Ravens. Some heads turned to him; sour with airsickness, but none in interest.

The Boy was staring at him again, and Evius found he could not read the expression present on the Psyker Childs face, doubt? Interest? He did not know. With some hesitancy Evius began, taking solace in one of the old rites of Titan.

"In the face of doubt I am become Purpose.  
Scour the unclean, scrape the filth from the foot of His domain."

"In the glory of triumph, I know it His will.  
Our fate His command, His sacrifice our salvation.

"In times of strife, I know solace from Pain.  
The wounds of the body bow to the resolve of the mind."

"In the hands of death, I shall deny His enemies satisfaction.  
I pray only to draw them before His throne as offerings."

As he finished, he had expected only silence, at best contemplation and rumination over wise words, at worst, distracted aversion.

He was unprepared for the Guardsman to take up his own mantra.

"Strap tight your holster so you may feel the weight of your gun."

"Strap tight the belt so it may remind you of what He asks."

"Strap tight your boots so they may carry you to His wars."

"Strap tight your pack so you may carry on when others fall to its weight."

"Unbind the ties that draw you home, for you will never see it again."

Gyalt looked at Evius who met his gaze. For once the Guardsman did not admonish him with a scowl or scorn- though he did not look to the grey knight with anything approaching kindness. It was a look that was of solemn understanding in the importance of ritual.

…

"Greetings, and thank the Immortal Emperor, you have arrived."

The waifish thing that greeted them at the landing pad could be no more than twelve Terran years. She had what could only be genespliced golden eyes and white hair culled back into a single braid that nearly swept the ground she walked on. She was attired in an elaborate silken bodysuit of white with ivory and gold trimming. It hugged her form almost like synthskin in a decidedly perverse way that caused Arto to raise an eyebrow and the Guardsman to snort in disdain, thumbing the battered and worn, but lovingly polished Aquila that hung around his neck.

"I am Vrer, life-bound to Lords Solph and Gerd" The servant girl bowed low, one foot put before the other with arms folded behind her back with one hand balled into a fist and the other open in a custom known only to those of hive nobility on Harkuul.

"We accept your greetings." Sheida stepped forwards, Arto at her side in an instant without needing to be told. She produced the sacred badge of her office from a case, the rosette shining in the dull light of the Hive with its own inner luminance.

Vrers eyes widened ever so slightly as she looked upon the signet. In an amazing lack of professionalism that left Evius with a bitter taste in his mouth, the girl did not even ask to see if it was authentic, and that they were who they so claimed to be. She meekly bowed once more, and bade them to follow her. Leading them to an armed escort just beyond the orbital landing platform, which in turn lead them to an ostentatious dirigible.

It was a much shorter flight this time through the spires of the Hive cities. The craft was much more aptly suited to carrying a large number of people and their respective cargo, it barley registered the weight of those on board. The slight hum of the engines strapped to the side of the lavish cupola was their only companion in the meanwhile. Evius took this time to study the Hive cities that spread out below them, their spires needling upwards from below, some reaching so high that they punched through the atmosphere and into space itself.

Such was a testimony to the power of mankind. For humans to be able to build such great structures even while they were beset upon from all sides in a never-ending war of brutal attrition against the very galaxy that spawned them. While other alien empires crumbled, humanity built.

He looked down below, through the glass window, his enhanced vision picking out the seething throngs of humanity lining the top deck of a pleasure barge, suspended in the air on grav generators and heavy balloons. He saw them, raucous and uncoordinated, but quick witted and capable of a days thought independent of the damned warp and its twisting eddies.

He noticed not for the first time how Arumot- the Eater, twitched and fiddled. Her gaze plastered to the window, sharp eyes picking out the throngs of humanity in its own way- not admiration but predatory hunger. Evius narrowed his eyes, recognizing soul hunger easily enough for he had seen it etched on the rictus grins of daemons and chaos warped humans. He wondered how quickly he could subdue her, should it come to such action. How many would It be able to kill or maim before his iron grip crushed its windpipe and rendered its actions into spasmodic twitches and jerks.

He gave It until sundown before its bloodlust overcame whatever passed for self-control, and it turned on them. He would be ready, and he would not hesitate. He returned his gaze to the window and the city beyond.

For a supposedly rebelling and chaos tainted world, Evius struggled to find the common signs of corruption. He saw no unholy alters, no sacrificial circles or rampant Daemon incursion- though he supposed that all insidious beginnings are subtle. Such is the nature of Chaos, to corrupt the background and then working its icy tendrils into the fore.

Evius is brought out of his contemplations by the soft chiming of bells and a noticeable e drop of acceleration, the engines singing a different pitch as the dirigible grab glider floats downwards, they must have reached their destination.

…

Behind them the dirigible lifts off, floating up and away from the narrow landing pad. The air is thin, the wind sharp and cold. Arto, Gyalt, and Makino held respirators to their faces while Tyana dawned her sabbat pattern helmet, the Aquila face plate doubling as both an emblem and a respirator, the tear-drop eye-lenses glowed with an inner light. Evius had no need of such things, his multi- lung more than adequate for such poor environments, it was a fact not lost to the Gene-spliced girl, Vrer, who held a mask to her face as well, her golden white tresses fluttering in the breeze. "You are strong, terribly strong…" She said, staring up at him, he did not reply, and followed after Sheida who was beyond such mundane things like breathing, Arumot had tried to follow in her stead, but her hands soon clutched at a respirator when breath failed her.

The narrow bridge ended at the foot of a massive set of high doors recessed into an archway, the entrance to the upper hive. It was hard not to be impressed by the gilded doors, scenes of the lengthy ruling families history played out upon them. The paltry history of the mortal family did not impress him so much as the height of the doors themselves. Evius reasoned that the gates were at least the height of a warhound titan. He noted the heavy silver chains that hung from the doors, and pondered their use until Vrer stepped forwards. A skull probe camera placed in front of the gates bit the proffered finger of Vrer, the blood no doubt coded with the genetic sequence used to open the gates.

Instead of a rumbling whine of overstressed metal in order to single the activation of the gates, the Inquisitorial retinue was instead treated to a swarm of golden skinned cherubs. Fat faced servitors with the bodies of lobotomized children, graced with faux angel wings placed upon their back so as to hide micro thrusters.

There must've been hundreds of them, pouring out from a portal hatch just above the apex of the gateway. Each one was crafted with golden cybernetics; gold leaf wings fluttered useless and dumb upon their backs as they rode the sharp winds down to the gate. Each Cherub grabbed one of the chains attached to the door, three to every chain.

They pulled, wings flapped as the thrusters struggled with the weight of the chain and the gates. A grinding screech rolled outwards to meet them as the great doors were forced upon by weight of numbers, the cherubs just as dead as the metal they pulled. Makino seemed utterly fascinated; staring up at the dead-creatures, gold leaf feathers no more than a millimeter thick cascaded down from the flock. The Sister pulled him by the shoulder, Vrer stepping through the widening gap in the doors and waiting for the Sheida and the others to follow.

They stepped through the doors, the archway they passed under was engraved with the visages of saints and winged angels. There was no doubting the exquisite craftsmanship. It was obviously not by the hands of the Mechanicum by that extent, the machine-priests of mars were incapable of creativity and ingenuity, traits they abandoned long ago. Evius could make out the indentations of the files and chisels used to scrape away at the marble edifices, each imprint cunningly wrought into the fine works of art. A much more simple but no less garish door blocked their passage, and the young servant was quick to imprint the code from her still bleeding finger into the genetic receptacle. A clatter of locks chattered from the door, and oiled hinges swung back to welcome the retinue into the spire proper.

A rush of clean air buffeted Evius as he stepped through and into a lengthy hallway- a bottleneck in his mind, as the hallway stretched onwards ahead of him, narrow walls and a high ceiling making it perfect for a single soldier to sit at one end and mow down countless others. He half expected to see a pair of Royal Guards standing at the end of the hallway, or a weapons servitor of some sort. Perhaps at one point there was such a thing, but clearly no longer. The tapestry-laden walls passed by them and the precious stone tile floor clicked underneath their feet. At the end of the hallway there was simply a mirror with the reflection of the retinue and Vrer leading the procession staring back at them.

Evius frowned at the obvious ostentation. Excess reigned in these hallways, an observation he made early on with its sentiment echoed by the Sister and Guardsman. Both were strict adherers to the Imperial creed, and by some extent, the Guardsman being the stricter of the two. Such opulence went against the tenants of humility as bespoken of by one of the many imperial heroes of the past.

It is fifteen minutes of walking that leads them to the chapel of the noble spire of Kaxius. High arch doors part almost at once, rolling back on straining hinges. The genespliced servant girl leads them forwards, stepping through the door to stand under the recusing glare of saints embossed in stone on either side of her. To Evius, the chapel section is infinitely more familiar then the rest of the estate that they had been lead through.

Cold, stagnant air filled his lungs, reminiscent of old incense and prayer-candles. The busts of saints lined the walls, widening out into a rounded chamber filled with rows of pews forming a semi-circle before a raised pulpit. Behind the pulpit a grand painting of a golden horizon stretched across from each end of the pulpit. The sun in the painting is depicted as The Emperor, a glowing and resplendent figure. Rays of golden light obscure his features as if the painter was afraid of defacing the Master of Mankinds image with his mortal hand and simple brush, both of them prone to error when painting an object of such perfection.

It is a remarkable work of art, well preserved despite its age. Evius can spot the telltale markings of several mediums, each one used to construct a different portion of the work. "The Pride of House Ildora, this one is called, although it went by many other names before that." Evius regarded the man sitting across from the pulpit; he too was entranced by the fresco, and had been here for hours it would seem. "Crafted before the Original scouring, made in the underhive by a mad prophet genius. He claimed to have Visions of The Emperor as a skeleton with golden bones adorned with a pair of great wings. He was later burned at the stake when the riots began and the Arbites moved in. Only a small portion of his works were saved." Age had touched the mans body, though it did not look it from a casual glance. He seemed to be no older than forty, yet with a hunched back and stiff movements, it was clear that Juviant drugs had been used extensively upon him- and they were starting to lose their effectiveness.

"Lord Maltoris?" Sheida asked, stepping forwards, she made the sign of the Auqilla, Maltoris retuned it with a boy. "Aye, I am he."

"The chapel is a odd place to conduct one such meeting." Shida admitted. "Perhaps your quarters would be of more use."

He shook his head," Nay, I am afraid such a place is out of the question. There are too many hungry ears, and there are few if any nobles that visit such sacred places these days, I am often the only one attending morning and afternoon prayers."

"That bodes poorly," Arto lamented.

Maltoris gestured for them to sit, and they found pews close to the Governor, Vrer stepped forwards and produced a small cogitator from underneath one of the pews. Evius recognized it as a compact jamming device, small and discreet.

"We should be fine now," Maltoris nodded, Vrer quietly stood beside him, hands folded neatly. "I am sure you are all well aware of the Harkuul cascades less-than stellar fashion when concerning loyalty and faith. So I will not bore you with the details. All that is important in those details is that you keep in mind the defining characteristics of the cults that saw to the original downfall of Harkuul."

"Pleasure cults," Shieda answered.

"Exactly, various groups and heretic religions sprang up in the underhive, far beyond the Arbites jurisdiction. Sordid tales began to filter up through the peasant classes concerning the dark practices and rituals involved, and along the way they started to become even more warped. Blood sacrifices, mutilation games, fire prayer. "

"You said that such practices have returned in your report."

"I did, and they for the most part have- from what I can tell. The corruption was mostly kept to the lower hives in the first rebellion of Karkullh, The upper tiers of the Hive were obviously influenced by the more insidious members of the Cults, but they were eliminated. It was easy to mark out the corrupted patrons of the foul pagan practices; it warped both body and mind… That is… No loner the case anymore."

"What has changed, Governor?"

"The Echlisiarchal representative of this planet has become compromised, from what I can assume.

"This is a grave statement to make, Lord Maltoris."

"Perhaps that is too strong of a way to put it," he backtracked hastily. "Misguided, might be a more subtle answer. But regardless of that, it is clear that something is not right,"

"Can you explain further,"

"The Imperial creed of this world has changed, the accepted manner of worship of Harkuul is uniformly standard practice, but it has changed from the Cult Lectino Divinitautus. The Echlisiarch has sanctioned entirely pagan practices and scriptures."

"Can you confirm these?"

"Slavery has been outlawed in the Cascade for millennia, it was my lineage that had seen its removal in the first place. But the Ecclesiarch has interpreted an edict so as to allow for the bondage of those possessing… _inhuman_ traits."

"Mutancy?" Gyalt snaps.

"That, and more. Gene-editing, splicing, tattoos, being too short or too tall."

"This is unusual but not unheard of," Sheida gestures towards Vrer. "You yourself seem to have partaken."

"It was not my intention to do so originally. She was gifted to me by a Noble seeking clemency for a minor infraction, and she was offered to me in such a way that I was unable to refuse."

"Politiking…" Arto sighed.

"We have strayed," Maltoris continues. "From that point on the Ecclesiarch has drafted differing interpretations to the Cult Imperialis. Far more than usual, the most alarming being the alterations to the method of worship being practiced."

"I have seen a distinct lack of public genuflection during our arrival."

"You have seen it, it is just no longer familiar to a true imperials eyes. It is deviancy," a striking energy heats the Lord Governors words. "Drinking and gluttony, parties and galas, orgiastic parades through the streets and grand debauched demonstrations." The Governor scowls at the ground. "Something has taken over this hive, but it did not do so by force of arms."

…

"Sounds rather routine, a smooth snatch-and-bag." Arto states. "Find one of their cultists, have the Boy go to work on them, drop them off none the wiser and work our way up the food-chain."

It hardly even counted as a living space, much less an inquisitorial safe house. Barred windows and cramped confines with a one room bed and bathroom with a broken shower. It barley fit four people at once, much less an inquisitorial retinue. Once again, Evius found himself as the object of loathing amongst his newfound comrades.

It was a hab-unit further down the hive spire. It housed mostly disgruntled workers that slaved away in the manufactoria and plasma plants that supplied heat and mundane materials to the upper hive levels. It was inconvenient and out of the way, it was a natural choice for them. The team was stripping down, clothes thrown across the room as replacement jump suits and various other pieces of ragged and worn equipment was adorned in an effort to blend in. Arto proved the most helpful concerning this, re adjusting Gyalts attire more than once- the fourth time was a clear attempt to spite the Guardsman.

As they did so they quickly ran over what were the best possible ways to go about infiltrating and dealing with the supposed cult. Sheida pulled a red mechanicus robe over her body- it was the only disguise that made any sense for her. She attached various cog-incarnime sigils over her body and gave her thoughts. "The direct approach seems to be the most efficient. A simple 'snatch and grab' has the chance of raising a few eyebrows."

"Why not just feign a gas leak under one of their gatherings question the survivors? Press them hard and keep pressing?"

"The cult may scatter rather than fight. If we show our hand as anyone else other than a local hive gang they may suspect inquisitorial involvement." Shieda replies coolly. "Infiltration seems to be the only reasonable modem of gathering information, it usually is."

There was little in the ways of disguising Evius as anything inconspicuous. He was an astartes, his bulk was immense and his presence intimidating. There was no true way to mask his presence, the same went for the Guardsman- Gyalt was Guard to the core, he practically _screamed_ military. While Mercenaries with history and backgrounds in the imperial Guard were a throne a dozen, few if any held themselves with a straight back and unsullied honor.

"The dear governor did speak of several open invite events scheduled to occur within the week." Arto commented. "One of them hosted by the Cardinal himself."

Tyana and Makino were easier to cloak with subterfuge. As a Shrine world it was not uncommon to see men and women of the cloth. Draped in gowns that signify religious mourning Tyana went as a lady following the Convocation of Silence, a religious sect of the Imperial Creed whose members did not speak- something that suited the already muted Sororitas- in doing so, they mourned the death of The Emperor as a Mortal Man when he ascended. For Makino, he went as an attendant to Tyana, serving her needs when the time for speech arose.

"I already planned on that event being a target." Sheida nodded. "It's a Gala, talking is to be expected." She looked at Arto, "Need I ask?"

Arto fastens his cufflinks on a truly ostentatious overcoat. "You do not, my dear Inquisitor. It has been awhile since I've been to one such event, may have gotten a bit rusty."

"Will you be needing anything?"

"Such events are melting pots for all sorts of degenerates and miscreants. It pays to have a suitable bodyguard when someone inevitably tries and slit your throat from behind." He looks around the cramped room. "Any volunteers?"

When no one moves to suggest themselves as the part, Makino hesitantly raises his hand before Tyana abruptly lowers it for him. Eyes linger on Evius for a moment, who stiffens in response. "I do not believe that…" He mutters, "That I would be a suitable choice."

"With all respect due, I do sincerely agree." Arto sighs. "An event like this is all about appearances and posture. Going with a high-class bodyguard shows that you have money but lack the means to defend yours without assistance, attending with a low quality bodyguard shows that you are strapped for thrones." Arto glances at Tyana. "In all honesty the best way to attend is with an escort or concubine."

Sheida motions to Tyana, "Perhaps the sister could masquerade as one?"

It is clear of the Sisters thought of such a disguise, her face reddening, Makino looking up at her with marked concern- Evius can feel the color of her surface thoughts.

"I believe that the Sister is rather adverse to such an act." Arto grimaces. "I don't suppose that you are up to such a task, dear Inquisitor?" He winces.

Sheida motions to her body, "Though it would not have been the first time I had seen to the destruction of a cult posed as one. I unfortunately lack even the most basic requirements for such a role as I am now." She taps her mask with a metal digit. "We are in the Emperors Favor however…" Sheida lets her mechanical eyes pan over the group until the came to rest on a member more silent than Tyana.

Arumot runs the damp cloth down the length of her blade once again, meticulously running her fingers lightly along the edge, feeling for ridges or abrasions that she knew she wouldn't find. She'd stripped the uncomfortable flak armor almost at once, letting her torso finally breathe without the constricting weight. The Eater glances up- head jerking with sudden tension as she feels eyes fall upon her. She hadn't been paying attention to the conversation. She hadn't cared. The Eater partly wishes it had.


End file.
